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SANT’ ILARIO 


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BY 

F. MARION CRAWFORD 

« « 

AUTHOR OF “ MR. ISAACS,” “ I>R. CLAUDIUS,” ” ZOROASTER,” 
“A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH,” ETC. 


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Neb) gork 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 

1897 


All rightts reserved 





COPYtflGIIT, 1888, 

By F. MARION CRAWFORD. 


First printed in 1888. New Edition set up and electrotyped 
January, 1892. Reprinted December, 1892; February, June, 
November, 1893: June, September, 1894; March, April (cheap 
edition), 1895; July, 1897. 



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THIS SICCOND TART OF “ SARACINESCA ” 


IS LOVINOT.Y DEDICATED 



SANT ILARIO. 


CHAPTER I. 

Two years of service in the Zouaves had wrought a 
change in Anastase Gouache, the painter. He was still 
a light man, nervously built, with small hands and feet, 
and a delicate face ; but constant exposure to the weather 
had browned his skin, and a life of unceasing activity 
had strengthened his sinews and hardened his compact 
frame. The clustering black curls were closely cropped, 
too, while the delicate dark moustache had slightly thick- 
ened. He had grown to be a very soldierly young fellow, 
straight and alert, quick of hand and eye, inured to that 
perpetual readiness which is the first characteristic of 
the good soldier, whether in peace or war. The dreamy 
look that was so often in his face in the days when he 
sat upon a high stool painting the portrait of Donna 
Tullia Mayer, had given place to an expression of wide- 
awake curiosity in the world’s doings. 

Anastase was an artist by nature an-d no amount of 
military service could crush the chief aspirations of his 
intelligence. He had not abandoned work since he had 
joined the Zouaves, for his hours of leisure from duty 
were passed in his studio. But the change in his out- 
ward appearance was connected with a similar develo^i- 
ment in his character. He himself sometimes wondered 
how he could have ever taken any interest in the half- 
hearted political fumbling which Donna Tullia, Ugo Del 
Ferice, and others of their set used to dignify by the 
name of conspiracy. It seemed to him that his ideas 
must at that time have been deplorably confused and 
lamentably unsettled. He sometimes took out the old 
sketch of Madame Mayer’s portrait, and setting it upon 

^ B 1 


2 


sant’ ilario. 


his easel, tried to realise and bring back those times 
when she had sat for him. He could recall Del Ferice’s 
mock heroics, Donna Tullia’s ill-expressed invectives, 
and his own half-sarcastic sympathy in the liberal move- 
ment; but the young fellow in an old velveteen jacket 
who used to talk glibly about the guillotine, about 
stringing-up the clericals to street-lamps and turning 
the churches into popular theatres, was surely not the 
energetic, sunburnt Zouave who had been hunting down 
brigands in the Samnite hills last summer, who spent 
three-fourths of his time among soldiers like himself, 
and who had pledged his honour to follow the gallant 
Charette and defend the Pope as long as he could carry 
a musket. 

There is a sharp dividing line between youth and 
manhood. Sometimes we cross it early, and sometimes 
late, but we do not know that we are passing from one 
life to another as we step across the boundary. The 
world seems to us the same for a while, as we knew it 
yesterday and shall know it to-morrow. Suddenly, we 
look back and start with astonishment when we see the 
past, which we thought so near, already vanishing in 
the distance, shapeless, confused, and estranged from 
our present selves. Then we know that we are men, 
and acknowledge, with something like a sigh, that we 
have put away childish things. 

When Gouache put on the gray jacket, the red sash 
and the yellow gaiters, he became a .man and speedily 
forgot Donna Tullia and her errors, and for some time 
afterwards he did not care to recall them. When he 
tried to remember the scenes at the studio in the Via 
San Basilio, they seemed very far away. One thing 
alone constantly reminded him disagreeably of the past, 
and that was his unfortunate failure to catch Del Ferice 
when the latter had escaped from Borne in the disguise 
of a mendicant friar. Anastase had never been able to 
understand how he had missed the fugitive. It had 
soon become known that Del Ferice had escaped by the 
very pass which Gouache was patrolling, and the young 
Zouave had felt the bitterest mortification in losing so 
valuable and so easy a prey. He often thought of it 
and promised himself that he would visit his anger on 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


3 


Del Ferice if he ever got a chance ; but Del Ferice was 
out of reach of his vengeance, and Donna Tullia Mayer 
had not returned to Kome since the previous year. It 
had been rumoured of late that she had at last fulfilled 
the engagement contracted some time earlier, and had 
consented to be called the Contessa Del Ferice; this 
piece of news, however, was not yet fully confirmed. 
Gouache had heard the gossip, and had immediately 
made a lively sketch on the back of a half-finished pic- 
ture, representing Donna Tullia, in her bridal dress, 
leaning upon the arm of Del Ferice, who was arrayed 
in a capuchin’s cowl, and underneath, with his brush, 
he scrawled a legend, Finis coronat opus.’^ 

It was nearly six o’clock in the afternoon of the 23d 
of September. The day had been rainy, but the sky had 
cleared an hour before sunset, and there was a sweet 
damp freshness in the air, very grateful after the long 
weeks of late summer. Anastase Gouache had been on 
duty at the Serristori barracks in the Borgo Santo 
Spirito and walked briskly up' to the bridge of Sant’ 
Angelo. There was not much, movement in the streets, 
and the carriages were few. A couple of officers were 
lounging at the gate of the castle and returned Gouache’s 
salute as he passed. In the middle of the bridge he 
stopped and looked westward, down the short reach of 
the river which caught a lurid reflection of the sunset 
on its eddying yellow surface. He mused a moment, 
thinking more of the details of his duty at the barracks 
than of the scene before him. Then he thought of the 
first time he had crossed the bridge in his Zouave uni- 
form, and a faint smile flickered on his brown features. 
It happened almost every day that he stopped at the 
same place, and as particular spots often become asso- 
ciated with ideas that seem to belong to them, the same 
thought almost always recurred to his mind as he stood 
there. Then followed the same daily wondering as to 
how all these things were to end ; whether he should for 
years to come wear the red sash and the yellow gaiters, 
a corporal of Zouaves, and whether for years he should 
ask himself every day the same question. Presently, as 
the light faded from the houses of the Borgo, he turned 
away with an imperceptible shrug of the shoulders and 


4 


SANT’ rLARIO. 


continued his walk upon the narrow pavement at the 
side of the bridge. As he descended the step at the 
end, to the level of the square, a small bright object in 
a crevice of the stones attracted his attention. He 
stooped and picked it up. 

It was a little gold pin, some two inches long, tlie 
head beaten out and twisted into the shape of the letter 
C. Gouache examined it attentively, and saw that it 
must have been long used, for it was slightly bent in 
more than one place as though it had often been thrust 
through some thick material. It told no other tale of 
its possessor, however, and the young man slipped it 
into his pocket and went on his way, idly wondering to 
whom the thing belonged. He reflected that if he had 
been bent on any important matter he would probably 
have considered the finding of a bit of gold as a favour- 
able omen ; but he was merely returning to his lodging 
as usual, and had no engagement for the evening. In- 
deed, he expected no event in his life at that time, and 
following the train of his meditation he smiled a little 
when he thought that he was not even in love. For a 
Frenchman, nearly thirty years of age, the position was 
an unusual one enough. In Gouache’s case it was espe- 
cially remarkable. Women liked him, he liked them, 
and he was constantly in the society of some of the 
most beautiful in the world. Nevertheless, he turned 
from one to another and found a like pleasure in the 
conversation of them all. What delighted him in the 
one was not what charmed him most in the next, but 
the equilibrium of satisfaction was well maintained 
between the dark and the fair, the silent beauty and 
the pretty woman of intelligence. There was indeed 
one whom he thought more noble in heart and grander 
in symmetry of form and feature, and stronger in mind 
than the rest ; but she was immeasurably removed from 
tlie sphere of his possible devotion by her devoted love 
of her husband, and he admired her from a distance, 
even while speaking with her. 

As he passed the Apollo theatre and ascended the Via 
di Tordinona the lights were beginning to twinkle in the 
low doorways, and the gas-lamps, then a very recent in- 
novation in Rome, shone out one by one in the distance. 


SANT’ ILABIO. 


.6 


The street is narrow, and was full of traffic, even in 
the evening. Pedestrians elbowed their way along in the 
dusk, every now and then flattening themselves against 
the dingy walls to let a cab or a carriage rush past them, 
not without real risk of accident. Pefore the deep, arched 
gateway of the Orso, one of the most ancient inns in the 
world, the empty wine-carts were getting ready for the 
return journey by night across the Campagna, the great 
bunches of little bells jingling loudly in the dark as the 
carters buckled the harness on their horses’ backs. 

Just as Gouache reached this place, the darkest and 
most crowded through which he had to pass, a tremen- 
dous clatter and rattle from the Via dell’ Orso made the 
hurrying people draw back to the shelter of the door- 
steps and arches. It was clear that a runaway horse was 
not far off. One of the carters, the back of whose wag- 
gon was half-way across the opening of the street, made 
desperate efforts to make his beast advance and clear the 
way; but the frightened animal only backed farther up. 
A moment later the runaway charged down past the tail 
of the lumbering vehicle. The horse himself just cleared 
the projecting timbers of the cart, but the cab he was 
furiously dragging caught upon them while going at full 
speed and was shivered to pieces, throwing the horse 
, heavily upon the stones, so that he slid along several 
feet on his head and knees with the fragments of the 
broken shafts and the wreck of the harness about him. 
The first man to spring from the crowd and seize the 
beast’s head was Anastase. He did not see that the same 
instant a large private carriage, drawn by a pair of 
powerful horses, emerged quickly from the Vicolo dei 
Soldati, the third of the streets which meet the Via di 
Tordinona at the Orso. The driver, who owing to the 
darkness had not seen the disaster which had just taken 
place, did his best to stop in time; but before the heavy 
equipage could be brought to a stand Anastase had been 
thrown to the ground, between the hoofs of the struggling 
cab-horse and the feet of the startled pair of bays. The 
crowd closed in as near as was safe, while the confusion 
and the shouts of the people and the carters increased 
every minute. 

The coachman of the private carriage threw the reins 


6 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


to the footman and sprang down to go to the horses’ 
heads. 

“ You have run over a Zouave ! ’’ some one shouted from 
the crowd. 

Meno male ! Thank goodness it was not one of us ! ” 
exclaimed another voice. 

Where is he? Get him out, some of you! ’’ cried the 
coachman as he seized the reins close to the hit. 

By this time a couple of stout gendarmes and two or 
three soldiers of the Antibes legion had made their way 
to the front and were dragging away the fallen cab-horse. 
A tall, thin, elderly gentleman, of a somewhat sour 
countenance, descended from the carriage and stooped 
over the injured soldier. 

It is only a Zouave, Excellency, ” said the coachman, 
with a sort of sigh of relief. 

The tall gentleman lifted Gouache’s head a little so 
that the light from the carriage-lamp fell upon his face. 
He was quite insensible, and there was blood upon his 
pale forehead and white cheeks. One of the gendarmes 
came forward. 

“We will take care of him. Signore,” he said, touch- 
ing his three-cornered hat. “But I must beg to know 
your revered name,” he added, in the stock Italian phrase. 
“ Capira — I am very sorry — but they say your horses 


“Put him into my carriage,” answered the elderly 
gentleman shortly. “I am the Principe Montevarchi.” 

“ But, Excellency — the Signorina ” protested the 

coachman. The prince paid no attention to the objection 
and helped the gendarme to deposit Anastase in the in- 
terior of the vehicle. Then he gave the man a silver 
scudo. 

“ Send some one to the Serristori barracks to say that 
a Zouave has been hurt and is at my house,” he said. 
Therewith he entered the carriage and ordered the coach- 
man to drive home. 

“ 111 heaven’s name, what has happened, papa? ” asked 
a young voice in the darkness, tremulous with excite- 
ment. 

“My dear child, there has been an accident in the 
street, and this young man has been wounded, or 
killed ” 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


7 


Killed ! A dead man in tlie carriage ! ” cried the young 
girl in some terror, and shrinkng away into the corner. 

“You should really control your nerves, Faustina,’* 
replied her father in austere tones. “ If the young man 
is dead, it is the will of Heaven. If he is alive we shall 
soon find it out. Meanwhile I must beg you to be calm 
— to be calm, do you understand?” 

Donna Faustina Montevarchi made no answer to this 
parental injunction, but withdrew as far as she could 
into the corner of the back seat, while her father sup- 
ported the inanimate body of the Zouave as the carriage 
swung over the uneven pavement. In a few minutes they 
rolled beneath a deep arch and stopped at the foot of a 
broad marble staircase. 

“Bring him upstairs carefully, and send for a sur- 
geon,” said the prince to the men who came forward. 
Then he offered his arm to his daughter to ascend the 
steps, as though nothing had happened, and without 
bestowing another look on the injured soldier. 

Donna Faustina was just eighteen years old, and had 
only quitted the convent of the Sacro Cuore a month 
earlier. It might have been said that she was too young 
to be beautiful, for she evidently belonged to that class 
'Of women who do not attain their full development until 
a later period. Her figure was almost too slender, her 
face almost too delicate and ethereal. There was about 
her a girlish look, an atmosphere of half -saintly maiden- 
hood, which was not so much the expression of her real 
nature as the effect produced by her being at once very 
thin and very fresh. There was indeed nothing partic- 
ularly angelic about her warm brown eyes, shaded by 
unusually long black lashes ; and little wayward locks of 
chestnut hair, curling from beneath the small round hat 
of the period, just before the small pink ears, softened 
as with a breath of worldliness the grave outlines of tlie 
serious face. A keen student of women might have seen 
that the dim religious halo of convent life which still 
clung to the young girl would soon fade and give way to 
the brilliancy of the woman of the world. She was not 
tall, though of fully average lieight, and although the 
dress of that time was ill-adax)ted to show to advantage 
either the figure or the movements, it was evident, as she 


8 


sant’ ilario. 


stepped lightly from the carriage, that she had a full 
share of ease and grace. She possessed that unconscious 
certainty in motion which proceeds naturally from the 
perfect proportion of all the parts, and which exercises 
a far greater influence over men than a faultless profile 
or a dazzling skin. 

Instead of taking her father’s arm, Donna Faustina 
turned and looked at the face of the wounded Zouave, 
whom three men had carefully taken from the carriage 
and were preparing to carry upstairs. Poor Gouache 
was hardly recognisable for the smart soldier who had 
crossed the bridge of Sant’ Angelo half an hour earlier. 
Ilis uniform was all stained with mud, there was blood 
upon his pale face, and his limbs hung down, powerless 
and limp. But as the young girl looked at him, con- 
sciousness returned, and with it came the sense of acute 
suffering. He opened his eyes suddenly, as men often 
do when they revive after being stunned, and a short 
groan escaped from his lips. Then, as he realised that he 
was in the j^resence of a lady, he made an effort as though 
to release himself from the hands of those who carried 
him, and to stand upon his feet. 

^‘Pardon me, Madame,” he began to say, but Faustina 
checked him by a gesture. 

Meanwhile old Monte varchi had carefully scrutinised 
the young man’s face, and had recognised him, for they 
had often met in society. 

Monsieur Gouache ! ” he exclaimed in surprise. At 
the same time he made the men move on with their 
burden. 

‘‘You know him, papa?” whispered Donna Faustina 
as they followed together. “He is a gentleman? I was 
right?” 

“Of course, of course,” answered her father. “But 
really, Faustina, had you nothing better to do than to go 
and look into his face? Imagine, if he had known you! 
Dear me ! If you begin like this, as soon as you are out 
of the convent ” 

Montevarchi left the rest of the sentence to his daugh- 
ter’s imagination, merely turning up his eyes a little as 
though deprecating the just vengeance of heaven upon 
his daughter’s misconduct. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


9 


E,eally, papa ” protested Faustina. 

^‘Yes — really, my daughter — I am much suprised,” 
returned her incensed parent, still speaking in an under- 
tone lest the injured man should overhear what was said. 

They reached the head of the stairs and the men car- 
ried Gouache rapidly away; not so quickly, however, as 
to prevent Faustina from getting another glimpse of his 
face. His eyes were open and met hers with an expres- 
sion of mingled interest and gratitude which she did not 
forget. Then he was carried away and she did not see 
him again. 

The Montevarchi household was conducted upon the 
patriarchal principle, once general in Itome, and not quite 
abandoned even now, twenty years later than the date of 
Gouache’s accident. The palace was a huge square build- 
ing facing uj)on two streets, in front and behind, and 
opening inwards upon two courtyards. Upon the lower 
door were stables, coach-houses, kitchens, and offices 
innumerable. Above these there was built a half story, 
called a mezzanino — in French, entresol, containing tlie 
quarters of the unmarried sons of the house, of the house- 
hold chaplain, and of two or three tutors employed in the 
edu6ation of the Montevarchi grandchildren. Next 
above, came the piano nobile,” or state apartments, 
comprising the rooms of the prince and princess, the 
dining-room, and a vast suite of reception-rooms, each of 
which opened into the next in such a manner that only the 
last was not necessarily a passage. In the huge hall was 
the dais and canopy with the family arms embroidered 
in colours once gaudy but now agreeably faded to a softer 
tone. Above this floor was another, occupied by the mar- 
ried sons, their wives and children; and high over all, 
above the cornice of the palace, were the endless servants’ 
quarters and the roomy garrets. At a rough estimate 
the establishment comprised over a hundred persons, all 
living under the absolute and despotic autliority of the 
head of the hous6, Don Lotario Montevarchi, Principe 
Montevarchi, and sole possessor of forty or fifty other 
titles. From his will and upon his pleasure depended 
every act of every member of his household, from his 
eldest son and heir, the Duca di Pellegra, to that of 
Pietro Paolo, the under-cook’s scullion’s boy. There 


10 


SANT’ ILAKIO. 


were three sons and four daughters. Two of the sons 
were married, to wit, Don Ascanio, to whom his father 
had given his second title, and Don Onorato, who was 
allowed to call himself Principe di Cantalupo, but who 
would have no legal claim to that distinction after his 
father’s death. Last of the three came Don Carlo, a 
young fellow of twenty years, but not yet emancipated 
from the supervision of his tutor. Of the daughters, the 
two eldest, Bianca and Laura, were married and no longer 
lived in Pome, the one having been matched with a Nea- 
politan and the other with a Florentine. There remained 
still at home, therefore, the third, Donna Flavia, and the 
youngest of all the family, Donna Faustina. Though 
Flavia was not yet two and twenty years of age, her father 
and mother were already beginning to despair of marry- 
ing her, and dropped frequent hints about the advisa- 
bility of making her enter religion, as they called it; 
that is to say, they thought she had better take the veil 
and retire from the world. 

The old princess Montevarchi was English by birth 
and education, but thirty-three years of life in Borne had 
almost obliterated all traces of her nationality. That 
all-pervading influence, which so soon makes Bonians of 
foreigners who marry into Boman families, had done its 
work effectually. The Boman nobility, by intermarriage 
with the principal families of the rest of Europe, has 
lost many Italian characteristics; but its members are 
more essentially Bomans than the full-blooded Italians 
of the other classes who dwell side by side with the aris- 
tocracy in Borne. 

When Lady Gwendoline Fontenoy married Don Lota- 
rio Montevarchi in the year 1834, she, no doubt, believed 
that her children would grow up as English as she her- 
self, and that her husband’s house would not differ 
materially from an establishment of the same kind in 
England. She laughed merrily at the provisions of the 
marriage contract, which even went so,far as to stipulate 
that she was to have at least two dishes of meat at din- 
ner, and an equivalent on fast-days, a drive every day 
— the traditional trottata — two new gowns every year, 
and a woman to wait upon her. After these and similar 
provisions had been agreed upon, her dowry, which was 


SANT' ILAKIO. 


11 


a large one for those days, was handed over to the keep- 
ing of her father-in-law and she was duly married to Don 
Lotario, who at once assumed the title of Duca di Bel- 
legra. The wedding journey consisted of a fortnight’s 
retirement in the Villa Monte varchi at Frascati, and at 
the end of that time the young couple were installed 
under the paternal roof in Dome. Before she had been 
in her new abode a month the young Duchessa realised 
the utter hopelessness of attempting to change the exist- 
ing system of patriarchal government under which she 
found herself living. She discovered, in the first place, 
that she would never have five scudi of her own in her 
pocket, and that if she needed a handkerchief or a pair 
of stockings it was necessary to obtain from the head of 
the house not only the permission to buy such neces- 
saries, but the money with which to pay for them. 
She discovered, furthermore, that if she wanted a cup 
of coffee or some bread and butter out of hours, those 
things were charged to her daily account in the steward’s 
office, as though she had been in an inn, and were paid 
for at the end of the year out of the income arising from 
her dowry. , Her husband’s younger brother, who had no 
money of his own, could not even get a lemonade in his 
father’s house without his father’s consent. 

Moreover, the family life was of such a nature as almost 
to preclude all privacy. The young Duchessa and her 
husband had their bedroom in the upper story, but Don 
Lotario’s request that his wife might have a sitting-room 
of her own was looked upon as an attempt at a domestic 
revolution, and the privilege was only obtained at last 
through the formidable intervention of the Duke of 
Agincourt, the Duchessa’ s own father. All the family 
meals, too, were eaten together in the solemn old dining- 
hall, hung with tapestries and dingy with the dust of 
ages. The order of precedence was always strictly 
observed, and though the cooking was of a strange kind, 
no plate or dish ever used which was not of solid 
silver, battered indeed, and scratched,- and cleaned only 
after Italian ideas, but heavy and massive withal. The 
Duchessa soon learned that the old Eoman houses all used 
silver plates from motives of economy, for the simple 
reason that metal did not break. But the sensible Eng- 


12 


sant’ ilario. 


lisli woman saw also that although the most rigid econ- 
omy was practised in many things, there was lavish 
expenditure in many departments of the establishment. 
There were magnificent horses in the stables, gorgeously 
gilt carriages in the coach-houses, scores of domestics in 
bright liveries at every door. The pay of the servants 
did not, indeed, exceed the average earnings of a shoe- 
black in London, but tlie coats they wore were exceed- 
ing glorious with gold lace. 

It was clear from the first that notliiiig was expected 
of Don Lotario’s wife but to live peaceably under the 
patriarchal rule, making no observations and offering no 
suggestions. Her husband told her that he was powerless 
to introduce any changes, and added, that since his father 
and all his ancestors had always lived in the same way, 
that way was quite gxDod enough for him. Indeed, he 
rather looked forward to the time when he should be 
master of the house, having children under him whom he 
might rule as absolutely and despotically as he was 
ruled himself. 

In the course of years the Duchessa absorbed the tra- 
ditions of her new home, so that they became part of her, 
and as everything went on unchanged from year to year 
she acquired unchanging habits which corresponded with 
her surroundings. Then, when at last the old prince and 
princess were laid side by side in the vault of the family 
chapel and she was princess in her turn, she changed 
nothing, but let everything go on in the same groove, 
educating her children and managing them, as her hus- 
band had been educated and as she herself had been 
managed by the old couple. Her husband grew more 
and more like his father, punctilious, rigid; a strict 
observant in religious matters, a pedant in little things, 
prejudiced against all change ; too satisfied to desire im- 
provement, too scrupulously conscientious to permit any 
retrogression from established rule, a model of the immu- 
tability of an ancient aristocracy, a living paradigm of 
what always had been and a stubborn barrier against all 
that might be. 

Such was the home to which Donna Faustina Monte- 
varchi returned to live after spending eight years in the 
convent of the Sacro Cuore. During that time she had 


sant’ ilario. 


13 


acquired the French language, a slight knowledge of 
music, a very limited acquaintance with the history of 
her own country, a ready memory for prayers and lita- 
nies — and her manners. Manners among the Italians 
are called education. What we mean by the latter word, 
namely, the learning acquired, is called, more precisely, 
instruction. An educated person means a person who 
has acquired the art of politeness. An instructed per- 
son means some one who has learnt rather more than 
the average of what is generally learnt by the class of 
people to whom he belongs. Donna Faustina was ex- 
tremely well educated, according to Koman ideas, but 
her instruction was not, and was not intended to be, any 
better than that imparted to the young girls with whom 
she was to associate in the world. 

As far as her character was concerned, she herself 
knew very little of it, and would probably have found 
herself very much embarra,ssed if called upon to explain 
what character meant. She was new and the world was 
very old: The nuns had told her that she must never 
care for the world, which was a very sinful place, full 
of thorns, ditches, pitfalls and sinners, besides the devil 
and his angels. Her sister Flavia, on the contrary, 
assured her that the world was very agreeable, when 
mamma happened to go to sleep in a corner during a ball ; 
that all men were deceivers, but that when a man danced 
well it made no difference whether he were a deceiver or 
not, since he danced with his legs and not with his con- 
science; that there was no happiness equal to a good 
cotillon, and that there were a number of these in every 
season; and, finally, that provided one did not spoil one^s 
complexion one might do anything, so long as mamma 
was not looking. 

To Donna Faustina, these views, held by the nuns on 
the one hand and by Flavia on the other, seemed very 
conflicting. She would not, indeed, have hesitated in 
choosing, even if she had been permitted any choice ; for 
it was clear that, since she had seen the convent side of 
the question, it would be very interesting to see the 
other. But, having been told so much about sinners, 
she was on the look-out for them, and looked forward to 
making the acquaintance of one of them with a pardon- 


14 


sant’ ilario. 


able excitement. Doubtless she would hate a sinner if 
she saw one, as the nuns had taught her, although the 
sinner of her imagination was not a very repulsive per- 
sonage. Flavia probably knew a great many, and Flavia 
said that society was very amusing. Faustina wished 
that the autumn months would pass a little more quickly, 
so that the carnival season might begin. 

Prince Montevarchi, for his part, intended his young- 
est daughter to be a model of prim propriety. He 
attributed to Flavians frivolity of behaviour the difficulty 
he experienced in finding her a husband, and he had no 
intention of exposing himself to a second failure in the 
case of Faustina. She should marry in her first season, 
and if she chose to be gay after that, the responsibility 
thereof might fall upon her husband, or her father-in- 
law, or upon whomsoever it should most concern; he 
himself would have fulfilled his duty so soon as the 
nuptial benediction was pronounced. He knew the for- 
tune and reputation of every marriageable young man in 
society, and was therefore eminently fitted for the task 
he undertook. To tell the truth, Faustina herself ex- 
pected to be married before Easter, for it was eminently 
fitting that a young girl should lose no time in such 
matters. But she meant to choose a man after her own 
heart, if she found one; at all events, she would not 
submit too readily to the paternal choice nor appear sat- 
isfied with the first tolerable suitor who should be pre- 
sented to her. 

Under these circumstances it seemed probable that 
Donna Faustina’s first season, which had begun with 
the unexpected adventure at the corner of the old Orso, 
would not come to a close without some passage of arms 
between herself and her father, even though the ultimate 
conclusion should lead to the steps of the altar. 

The men carried the wounded Zouave away to a distant 
room, and Faustina entered the main apartments by the 
side of the old prince. She sighed a little as she went. 

“ I hope the poor man will get well ! ” she exclaimed. 

“Do not disturb your mind about the young man,” 
answered her father. “He will be attended by the 
proper persons, and the doctor will bleed him and the 
will of Heaven will be done. It is not the duty of a 


SANT’ ILARIO. 15 

well-conducted young woman to be thinking of such 
things, and you may dismiss the subject at once.” 

“Yes, papa,” said Faustina submissively. But in 
spite of the dutiful tone of voice in which she spoke, the 
dim light of the tall lamps in the antechambers showed 
a strange expression of mingled amusement and contra- 
riety in the girl’s ethereal face. 


CHAPTER II. 

“You know Gouache?” asked old Prince Saracinesca, 
in a tone which implied that he had news to tell. He 
looked from his daughter-in-law to his son as he put the 
question, and then went on with his breakfast. 

“ V ery well, ” answered Giovanni. “ What about him ? ” 

“ He was knocked down by a carriage last night. The 
carriage belonged to Montevarchi, and Gouache is at his 
house, in danger of his life.” 

“ Poor fellow ! ” exclaimed Corona in ready sympathy. 
“I am so sorry! I am very fond of Gouache.” 

Giovanni Saracinesca, known to the world since his 
marriage as Prince of Sant’ Ilario, glanced quickly at 
his wife, so quickly that neither she nor the old gentle- 
man noticed the fact. 

The three persons sat at their midday breakfast in the 
dining-room of the Palazzo Saracinesca. After much 
planning and many discussions the young couple had 
determined to take up their abode with Giovanni’s father. 
There were several reasons which had led them to this 
decision, but the two chief ones were that they were both 
devotedly attached to the old man; and secondly, that 
such a proceeding was strictly fitting and in accordance 
with the customs of Romans. It was true that Corona, 
while her old husband, the Duca d’Astrardente, was 
alive, had grown used to having an establishment exclu- 
sively her own, and both the Saracinesca had at first 
feared that she would be unwilling to live in her father- 
in-law’s house. Then, too, there was the Astrardente 


16 


sant’ ilario. 


palace, which could not be shut up and allowed to go to 
ruin; but this matter was compromised advantageously 
by Corona’s letting it to an American millionaire who 
.wished to spend the winter in Eome. The rent paid was 
large, and Corona never could have too much money for 
her im.provements out at Astrardente. Old Saracinesca 
wished that the tenant might have been at least a diplo- 
matist, and cursed the American by his gods, but Gio- 
vanni said that his wife had shown good sense in getting 
as much as she could for the palace. 

“We shall not need it till Orsino grows up — unless 
you marry again,” said Sant’ Ilario to his father, with 
a laugh. 

Now, Orsino was Giovanni’s son and heir, aged, at the 
time of this tale, six months and a few days. In spite 
of his extreme youth, however, Orsino played a great and 
important part in the doings of the Saracinesca house- 
hold. In the first place, he was the heir, and the old 
prince had been found sitting by his cradle with an 
expression never seen in his face since Giovanni had been 
a baby. Secondly, Orsino was a very fine child, swarthy 
of skin, and hard as a tiger cub, yet having already his 
mother’s eyes, large, coal-black and bright, but deep and 
soft withal. Thirdly, Orsino had a will of his own, 
admirably seconded by an enormous lung power. Not 
that he cried, when he wanted anything. His baby eyes 
had not yet been seen to shed tears. He merely shouted, 
loud and long, and thumped the sides of his cradle with 
his little clenched lists, or struck out straight at anybody 
who chanced to be within reach. Corona rejoiced in the 
child, and used to say that he was like his grandfather, 
his father and his mother all put together. The old prince 
thought that if this were true the boy would do very 
well; Corona was the most beautiful dark woman of her 
time; he himself was a sturdy, tough old man, though 
his hair and beard were white as snow, and Giovanni 
was his father’s ideal of what a man of his race should 
be. The arrival of the baby Orsino had been an addi- 
tional argument in favour of living together, for the 
child’s grandfather could not have been separated from 
him even by the quarter of a mile which lay between the 
two palaces. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


17 


And so it came to pass that they all dwelt under the 
same roof, and were sitting together at breakfast on the 
morning of the 24th of September, when the old prince- 
told them of the accident which had happened to Gouache. 

‘‘How did you hear the news?’’ asfcd Giovanni. 

“Montevarchi told me this morning. He was very 
much disturbed at the idea of having an interesting 
young man in his house, with Flavia and Faustina at 
home.” Old Saracinesca smiled grimly. 

“Why should that trouble him?” inquired Corona. 

“ He has the ancient ideas, ” replied her father-in-law. 

“ After all — Flavia ” 

“Yes. Flavia, after all ” 

“I shall be curious to see how the other one turns 
out, ” remarked Giovanni. “ There seems to be a certain 
unanimity in our opinion of Flavia. However, I dare- 
say it is mere gossip, and Oasa Montevarchi is not a gay 
place for a girl of her age.” 

“ Hot gay? How do you know? ” asked the old prince. 
“Does the girl want Carnival to last till All Souls’? 
Did you ever dine there, Giovannino? ” 

“ Ho — nor any one else who is not a member of the 
most Excellent Casa Montevarchi.” 

“ Then how do you know whether it is gay or not? ” 

“You should hear Ascanio Bellegra describe their 
life,” retorted Giovanni. 

“And I suppose you describe your life to him, in 
exchange?” Prince Saracinesca was beginning to lose 
liis temper, as he invarial)ly did whenever he could 
induce his son to argue any question with him. “I 
suppose you deplore each other’s miserable condition. 
I tell you what I think, Giovanni. You had better go 
and live in Corona’s house if you are not happy here.” 

“ It is let, ” replied Giovanni with imperturbable calm, 
but his wife bit her lip to control her rising laughter. 

“You might travel,” growled the old gentleman. 

“But I am very happy here.” 

“ Then what do you mean by talking like that about 
Casa Montevarchi?” 

“I fail to see the connection between the two ideas,” 
observed Giovanni. 

“You live in precisely the same circumstances as 
c 


18 


sant’ ilario. 


Ascanio Bellegra. I think the connection is clear enough. 
If his life is sad, so is yours.” 

“ For downright good logic commend me to my beloved 
father 1 ” cried Giovanni, breaking into a laugh at last. 

“ A laughing-stock for my children ! I have come to 
this ! ” exclaimed his father gruffly. But his features 
relaxed into a good-humoured smile, that was pleasant to 
see upon his strong dark face. 

“But, really, I am very sorry to hear this of poor 
Gouache,” said Corona at last, returning to the original 
subject of their conversation. “I hope it is nothing 
really dangerous.” 

“It is always dangerous to be run over by a carriage,” 
answered Giovanni. “I will go and see him, if they 
will let me in.” 

At this juncture Orsino was brought in by his nurse, 
a splendid creature from Saracinesca, with bright blue 
eyes and hair as fair as any Goth’s, a contrast to the 
swarthy child she carried in her arms. Immediately the 
daily ovation began, and each of the three persons began 
to worship the baby in an especial way. There was no 
more conversation, after that, for some time. The 
youngest of the Saracinesca absorbed the attention of 
the family. Whether he clenched his little fists, or 
opened his small fat fingers, whether he laughed and 
crowed at his grandfather’s attempts to amuse him, or 
struck his nurse’s rosy cheeks with his chubby hands, 
the result was always applause and merriment from those 
who looked on. The scene recalled Joseph’s dream, in 
which the sheaves of his brethren bowed down to his 
sheaf. 

After a while, however, Orsino grew sleepy and had 
to be taken away. Then the little party broke up and 
separated. The old prince went to his rooms to read and 
doze for an hour. Corona was called away to see one of 
the numberless dressmakers whose shadows darken the 
beginning of a season in town, and Giovanni took his hat 
and went out. 

In those days young men of society had very little to 
do. The other day a German diplomatist was heard to 
say that Italian gentlemen seemed to do nothing but 
smoke, spit, and criticise. Twenty years ago their man- 


sant’ ilario. 


19 


ners might have been described less coarsely, but there 
was even more truth in the gist of the saying. Not only 
they did nothing. There was nothing for them to do. 
They floated about in a peaceful millpool, whose placid 
surface reflected nothing but their own idle selves, little 
guessing that the dam whereby their mimic sea was con- 
fined, would shortly break with a thundering crash and 
empty them all into the stream of real life that flowed 
below. For the few who disliked idleness there was no 
occupation but literature, and literature, to the E-oman 
mind of 1867, and in the Eoman meaning of the word, 
was scholarship. The introduction to a literary career 
was supposed to be obtained only by a profound study 
of the classics, with a view to avoiding everything clas- 
sical, both in language and ideas, except Cicero, the 
apostle of the ancient Eoman Philistines ; and the ten-' 
dency to clothe stale truisms and feeble sentiments in 
high-sounding language is still found in Italian prose and 
is indirectly traceable to the same source. As for the 
literature of the country since the Latins, it consisted, 
and still consists, in the works of the four poets, Dante, 
Tasso, Ariosto, and Petrarch. Leopardi is more read 
now than then, but is too unhealthily melancholy to 
be read long by any one. There used to be Eoman 
princes who spent years in committing to memory the 
verses of those four poets, just as the young Brahman of 
to-day learns to recite the Big Veda. That was called 
the pursuit of literature. 

The Saracinesca were thought very original and differ- 
ent from other men, because they gave some attention to 
their estates. It seemed very like business to try and 
improve the possessions one had inherited or acquired 
by marriage, and business was degradation. Neverthe- 
less, the Saracinesca were strong enough to laugh at 
other people’s scruples, and did what seemed best in 
their o'wn eyes without troubling themselves to ask what 
the world thought. But the care of such matters was 
not enough to occupy Giovanni all day. He had much 
time on his hands, for he was an active man, who slept 
little and rarely needed rest. Formerly he had been 
used to disappear from Borne periodically, making long 
journeys, generally ending in shooting expeditions in 


20 


sant’ ilario. 


some half-explored country. That was in the days 
before his marriage, and his wanderings had assuredly 
done him no harm. He had seen much of the world not 
usually seen by men of his class and prejudices, and the 
acquaintance he had thus got with things and people 
was a source of great satisfaction to him. lint the tinu* 
had come to give uj) all this. He was now not only 
married and settled in his own home, but moreover he 
loved his wife with his whole heart, and these facts were 
serious obstacles against roughing it in Norway, Canada, 
or Transylvania. To travel with Corona and little Orsino 
seemed a very different matter from travelling with 
Corona alone. Then there was his father’s growing 
affection for the child, which had to be taken into 
account in all things. The four had become inseparable, 
old Saracinesca, Giovanni, Corona, and the baby. 

Now Giovanni did not regret his old liberty. He 
knew that he was far happier than he had ever been in 
his life before. But there were days when the time 
hung heavily on his hands and his restless mature craved 
some kind of action which should bring with it a gener- 
ous excitement. This was precisely what he could not 
find during the months spent in Borne, and so it fell out 
that he did very much what most young men of his birth 
found quite sufficient as an employment; he spent a deal 
of time in strolling where others strolled, in lounging at 
the club, and in making visits which hlled the hours 
between sunset and dinner. To him this life was new, 
and not altogether tasteful; but his friends did not fail 
to say that Giovanni had been civilised by his marriage 
with the Astrardente, and was much less reserved than 
he had formerly been. 

When Corona went to see the dressmaker, Giovanni 
very naturally took his hat and went out of the house. 
The September day was warm and bright, and in such 
weather it was a satisfaction merely to pace the old 
Boman streets in the autumn sun. It was too early to 
meet any of his acquaintance, and too soon in the season 
for any regular visiting. He did not know what to do, 
but allowed himself to enjoy the sunshine and the sweet 
air. Presently, the sight of a couple of Zouaves, talking 
together at the corner of a street, recalled to his mind 


sant’ ilakto. 


21 


the accident which had happened to Gouache. It would 
he kind to go and see the poor fellow, or, at least, to ask 
after him. He had known him for some time and had 
gradually learned to like him, as most people did who 
met the gifted artist day after day throughout the gaiety 
of the winter. 

At the Palazzo Montevarchi Giovanni learned that the 
X)rincess had just linished breakfast. He could hardly 
ask for Gouache without making a short visit in the 
drawing-room, and he accordingly submitted, regretting 
after all that he had come. The old princess bored him, 
he did not know Faustina, who was just out of the con- 
vent, and Flavia, who amused many people, did not 
amuse him in the least. He inwardly rejoiced that he 
was married, and that his visit could not be interpreted 
as a preliminary step towards asking for Flavia’ s hand. 

The princess looked up with an expression of inquiry 
in her prominent blue eyes, as Sant’ llario entered. She 
was stout, florid, and not well dressed. Her yellow hair, 
already half gray, for she was more than flfty years old, 
was of the unruly kind, and had never looked neat even 
in her best days. Her bright, clear complexion saved 
her, however, as it saves hundreds of middle-aged Eng- 
lishwomen, from that look of peculiar untidiness which 
belongs to dark-skinned persons who take no trouble 
about their appearance or personal adornment. In spite 
of thirty -three years of residence in Home, she spoke 
Italian with a foreign accent, though otherwise correctly 
enough. But she was nevertheless a great lady, and no 
one would have thought of doubting the fact. Fat, 
awkwardly dressed, of no imposing stature, with unman- 
ageable hair and prominent teeth, she was not a person 
to be laughed at. She had what many a beautiful woman 
lacks and envies — natural dignity of character and man- 
ner, combined with a self-possession which is not always 
found in exalted personages. That repose of manner 
which is commonly believed to be the heirloom of noble 
birth is seen quite as often in the low-born adventurer, 
who regards it as part of his stock-in-trade; and there 
are many women, and men too, whose position might be 
expected to place them beyond the reach of what we call 
shyness, but who nevertheless suffer daily agonies of 


22 


sant’ ilarto. 


social timidity and would rather face alone a charge of 
cavalry than make a new acquaintance. The Princess 
Montevarchi was made of braver stuff, however, and if 
her daughters had not inherited all her unaffected dignity 
they had at least received their fair share of self-posses- 
sion. When Sant’ Ilario entered, these two young ladies, 
Donna Flavia and Donna Faustina, were seated one on 
each side of their mother. The princess extended her 
hand, the two daughters held theirs demurely crossed 
upon their knees. Faustina looked at the carpet, as she 
had been taught to do in the convent. Flavia looked up 
boldly at Giovanni, knowing by experience that her 
mother could not see her while greeting the visitor. 
Sant’ Ilario muttered some sort of civil inquiry, bowed 
to the two young ladies and sat down. 

^‘How is Monsieur Gouache? ” he asked, going straight 
to the point. He had seen the look of surprise on the 
princess’s face as he entered, and thought it best to 
explain himself at once. 

“ Ah, you have heard? Poor man ! He is badly hurt, 
I fear. Would you like to see him?” 

‘‘Presently, if I may,” answered Giovanni. “We are 
all fond of Gouache. How did the accident happen?” 

“ Faustina ran over him, ” said Flavia, fixing her dark 
eyes on Giovanni and allowing her pretty face to assume 
an expression of sympathy — for the sufferer. “Faus- 
tina and papa,” she added. 

“ Flavia ! How can you say such things ! ” exclaimed 
the princess, who spent a great part of her life in repress- 
ing her daughter’s manner of speech. 

“Well, mamma — it was the carriage of course. P>ut 
papa and Faustina were in it. It is the same thing.” 

Giovanni looked at Faustina, but her thin fresh face 
expressed nothing, nor did she show any intention of 
commenting on her sister’s explanation. It was the first 
time he had seen her near enough to notice her,' and his 
attention was arrested by something in her looks which 
surprised and interested him. It was something almost 
impossible to describe, and yet so really present that it 
struck Sant’ Ilario at once, and found a place in his 
memory. In the superstitions of the far north, as in the 
half material spiritualism of Polynesia, that look has a 


sant’ ilario. 


23 


meaning and an interpretation. With us, the interpret 
tation is lost, but the instinctive persuasion that the 
thing itself is not wholly meaningless remains ineradi- 
cable. We say, with a smile at our own credulity, ‘^That 
man looks as though he had a story,” or, ‘‘That woman 
looks as though something odd might happen to her.” 
It is an expression in the eyes, a delicate shade in the 
features, which sj)eak of many things which we do not 
understand; things which, if they exist at all, we feel 
must be inevitable, fatal, and beyond human control. 
Giovanni looked and was surprised, but Faustina said 
nothing. 

“ It was very good of the prince to bring him here, ” 
remarked Sant’ Ilario. 

“It was very unlike papa,” exclaimed Flavia, before 
her mother could answer. “ But very kind, of course, as 
you say,” she added, with a little smile. Flavia had a 
habit of making rather startling remarks, and of then 
adding something in explanation or comment, before her 
hearers had recovered breath. The addition did not 
always mend matters very much. 

“Do not interrupt me, Flavia,” said her mother, 
severely. 

“I beg your pardon, were you speaking, mamma?” 
asked the young girl, innocently. 

Giovanni was not amused by Flavia’ s manners, and 
waited calmly for the princess to speak. 

“Indeed,” said she, “there was nothing else to be 
done. As we had run over the poor man ” 

“ The carriage ” suggested Flavia. But her mother 

took no notice of her. 

“ The least we could do, of course, was to bring him 
here. My husband would not have allowed him to be 
taken to the hospital.” 

Flavia again fixed her eyes on Giovanni with a look of 
sympathy, which, however, did not convey any very 
profound belief in her father’s charitable intentions. 

“I quite understand,” said Giovanni. “And how has 
he been since you brought him here? Is he in any 
danger? ” 

“You shall see him at once, ” answered the princess, 
who rose and rang the bell, and then, as the servant’s 


24 


sant’ ilario. 


footsteps were heard outside, crossed the room to meet 
him at the door. 

‘^Mamina likes to run about,” said Elavia, sweetly, in 
explanation. Giovanni had risen and made as though 
he would have been of some assistance. 

Tlie action was characteristic of the Princess Monte- 
varchi. An Italian Avonian would neither have rung the 
bell herself, nor have committed such an imprudence as 
to turn her back upon her two daughters when there was 
a man in the room. But she was English, and a whole 
lifetime spent among Italians could not extinguish her 
activity; so she went to the door herself. Faustina’s 
deep eyes followed her mother as though she were inter- 
ested to know the news of Gouache. 

“I hope he is better,” she said, quietly. 

Of course, ” echoed Flavia. ^‘Sodol. But mamma 
amuses me so much! She is always in a hurry.” 

Faustina made no answer, but she looked at Sant’ 
Ilario, as though she wondered what he thought of her 
sister. He returned her gaze, trying to explain to him- 
self the strange attraction of her expression, watcliing 
her critically as he would have watched any new person 
or sight. She did not blush nor avoid his bold eyes, as 
he would have expected had he realised that he was 
staring at her. 

A few minutes later Giovanni found himself in a nar- 
row, high room, lighted by one window, which showed 
the enorinfeus thickness of the walls in the deep embra- 
sure. The vaulted ceiling was painted in fresco with a 
representation of Apollo in the act of drawing his bow, 
arrayed for the time being in his quiver, while his other 
garments, of yellow and blue, floated everywhere save 
over his body. The floor of the room was of red bricks, 
which had once been waxed, and the furniture was scanty, 
massive and very old. Anastase Gouache lay in one 
corner in a queer-looking bed covered with a yellow 
damask quilt the worse for a century or two of wear, 
upon which faded embroideries showed the Montevarchi 
arms surmounted by a cardinal’s hat. Upon a chair 
beside the patient lay the little heap of small belongings 
he had carried in his pocket when hurt, his watch and 
purse, his cigarettes, his handkerchief and a few other 


sant’ ilario. 


25 


trifles, ainoiig which, half concealed by the rest, was the 
gold pill he had picked up by the bridge on the previous 
evening. There was a mingled smell of dampness and 
of stale tobacco in the comfortless room, for the windows 
were closely shut, in spite of the bright sunshine that 
flooded the opposite side of the street. 

Gouache lay on his back, his head tied up in a bandage 
and supported by a white pillow, which somehow con- 
veyed the impression of one of those marble cushions 
upon which in old-fashioned monuments the effigies of 
the dead are made to lean in eternal prayer, if not in 
eternal ease. He moved impatiently as the door opened, 
and then recognising Giovanni, he hailed him in a voice 
much more lively and sonorous than might have been 
expected. 

“You, prince!” he cried, in evident delight. “What 
saint has brought you? ” 

“ I heard of your accident, and so I came to see if I 
could do anything for you. How are you? ” 

“As you see,” replied Gouache. “In a hospitable 
tomb, with my head tied up like an imperfectly-resur- 
rected Lazarus. Lor the rest there is nothing the matter 
with me, except that they have taken away my clothes, 
which is something of an obstacle to my leaving the 
house at once. I feel as if I had been in a revolution 
and had found myself on the wrong side of the barricade 
— nothing worse than that.” 

“You are in good spirits, at all events. But are you 
not seriously hurt? ” 

“Oh, nothing — a broken collar-bone somewhere, I 
believe, and some part of my head gone — I am not 
quite sure which, and a bad headache, and nothing to 
eat, and a general sensation as though somebody had 
made an ineffectual effort to turn me into a sausage.” 

“What does the doctor say?” 

“ Nothing. He is a man of action. He bled me be- 
cause I had not the strength to strangle him, and poured 
decoctions of boiled grass down my throat because I 
could not speak. He has fantastic ideas about the human 
body.” 

“But you will have to stay here several days,” said 
Giovanni, considerably amused by Gouache’s view of his 
own case. 


26 


sant’ ilario. 


“ Several days ! Not even several hours, it I can help 
it.” 

‘‘Things do not go so quickly in Eome. You must be 
patient.” 

“ In order to starve, when there is food as near as the 
Corso?” inquired the artist. “To be butchered by a 
Koman phlebotomist, and drenched with infusions of hay 
by the Principessa Montevarchi, when I might be devis- 
ing means of being presented to her daughter? What do 
you take me for? I suppose the young lady with the 
divine eyes is her daughter, is she not? ” 

“You mean Donna Faustina, I suppose. Yes<^ She 
is the youngest, just out of the Sacro Cuore. She was in 
the drawing-room when I called just now. How did you 
see her? ” 

“ Last night, as they brought me upstairs, I was lucky 
enough to wake up just as she was looking at me. What 
eyes ! I can think of nothing else. Seriously, can you 
not help me to get out of here? ” 

“ So that you may fall in love with Donna Faustina 
as soon as possible, I suppose,” answered Giovanni with 
a laugh. “ It seems to me that there is but one thing 
to do, if you are really strong enough. Send for your 
clothes, get up, go into the drawing-room and thank the 
princess for her hospitality.” 

“ That is easily said. Nothing is done in this house 
without the written permission of the old prince, unless 
I am much mistaken. Besides, there is no bell. I 
might as well be under arrest in the guard-room of the 
barracks. Presently the doctor will come and bleed me 
again and the princess will send me some more boiled 
grass. I am not very fat, as it is, but another day of 
this diet will make me diaphanous — I shall cast no 
shadow. A nice thing, to be caught without a shadow 
on parade ! ” 

“I will see what I can do,” said Giovanni, rising. 
“ Probably, the best thing would be to send your military 
surgeon. He will not be so tender as the other leech, 
but he will get you away at once. My wife wished me 
to say that she sympathised, and hoped you might soon 
be well.” 

“My homage and best thanks to the princess,” an- 


sant’ ilario. 


27 


swered Gouache, with a slight change of tone, presum- 
ably to be referred to his sense of courtesy in speaking 
of the absent lady. 

So Giovanni went away, promising to send the surgeon 
at once. The latter soon arrived, saw Gouache, and was 
easily persuaded to order him home without further 
delay. The artist-soldier would not leave the house 
without thanking his hostess. His uniform had been 
cleansed from the stains it had got in the accident, and 
his left arm was in a sling. The wound on his head was 
more of a bruise than a cut, and was concealed by his 
thick black hair. Considering the circumstances he pre- 
sented a very good appearance. The princess received 
him in the drawing-room, and Flavia and Faustina were 
with her, but all three were now dressed to go out, so 
that the interview was necessarily a short one. 

Gouache made a little speech of thanks and tried to 
forget the decoction of mallows he had swallowed, fear- 
ing lest the recollection should impart a tone of insin- 
cerity to his expression of gratitude. He succeeded very 
well, and afterwards attributed the fact to Donna Faus- 
tina's brown eyes, which were not cast down as they had 
been when Sant’ Ilario had called, but appeared on the 
contrary to contemplate the new visitor with singular 
interest. 

I am sure my husband will not approve of your going 
so soon,” said the princess in somewhat anxious tones. 
It was almost the first time she had ever known any step 
of importance to be taken in her house without her hus- 
band’s express authority. 

“Madame,” answered Gouache, glancing from Donna 
Faustina to his hostess, “ I am in despair at having thus 
unwillingly trespassed upon your hospitality, although 
I need not tell you that I would gladly prolong so 
charming an experience, provided I were not confined to 
solitude in a distant chamber. However, since our 
regimental surgeon pronounces me fit to go home, I have 
no choice but to obey orders. Believe me, Madame, I am 
deeply grateful to yourself as well as to the Principe Mon- 
tevarchi for your manifold kindnesses, and shall cherish 
a remembrance of your goodness so long as I live.” 

With these words Gouache bowed as though he would 


28 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


be gone and stood waiting for the princess’s last word. 
But before her mother could speak, Faustina’s voice was 
heard. 

“ I cannot tell you how dreadfully we feel — papa and 
I — at having been the cause of such a horrible accident ! 
Is there nothing we can do to make you forget it?” 

The princess stared at her daughter in the utmost 
astonishment at her forwardness. She would not have 
been surprised if Flavia had been guilty of such impru- 
dence, but that Faustina should thus boldly address a 
young man who had not spoken to her, was such a shock 
to her belief in the girl’s manners that she did not recover 
for. several seconds. Anastase appreciated the situation, 
for as he answered, he looked steadily at the mother, 
although his words were plainly addressed to the brown- 
eyed beauty. 

‘‘Mademoiselle is too kind. She exaggerates. And 
yet, since she has put the question, I will say that I 
should forget my broken bones very soon if I might be 
permitted to paint Mademoiselle’s portrait. I am a 
painter,” he added, in modest explanation. 

“Yes,” said the princess, “I know. But, really — 
this is a matter which would require great consideration 
— and my husband’s consent — and, for the present ” 

She paused significantly, intending to convey a polite 
refusal, but Gouache completed the sentence. 

“ For the present, until my bones are mended, we will 
not speak of it. When I am well again I will do myself 
the honour of asking the prince’s consent myself.” 

Flavia leaned towards her mother and whispered into 
her ear. The words were quite audible, and the girl’s 
dark eyes turned to Gouache with a wicked laugh in them 
while she was speaking. 

“ Oh, mamma, if you tell papa it is for nothing he will 
be quite delighted ! ” 

Gouache’s lip trembled as he suppressed a smile, and 
the elderly princess’s florid cheeks flushed with annoy- 
ance. 

“For the present,” she said, holding out her hand 
rather coldly, “we will not speak of it. Pray let us 
know of your speedy recovery. Monsieur Gouache.” 

As the artist took his leave he glanced once more at 


SANT' ILARIO. 


29 


Donna Faustina. Her face was pale and her eyes flashed 
angrily. She, too, had heard Flavia’s stage whisper and 
was even more annoyed than her mother. Gouache went 
his way toward his lodging in the company of the sur- 
geon, pondering on the inscrutable mysteries of the 
Koman household of which he had been vouchsafed a 
glimpse. He was in pain from his head and shoulder, 
but insisted that the walk would do him good and refused 
the cab which his companion had brought. A broken 
collar-bone is not a dangerous matter, but it can be very 
troublesome for a while, and the artist was glad to get 
back to his lodgings and to find himself comfortably 
installed in an easy chair with something to eat before 
him, of a more substantial nature than the Principessa 
Montevarchi’s infusions of camomile and mallows. 


CHAPTER III. 

While Giovanni was at the Palazzo Montevarchi, and 
while Corona was busy with her dressmakers. Prince 
Saracinesca was dozing over the Osservatore Romano in 
his study. To tell the truth the paper was less dull than 
usual, for there was war and rumour of war in its columns. 
Garibaldi had raised a force of volunteers and was in the 
neighbourhood of Arezzo, beginning to skirmish with the 
outlying posts of the pontifical army along the fron- 
tier. The old gentleman did not know, of course, that 
on that very day the Italian Government was issuing its 
proclamation against the great agitator, and possibly if 
he had been aware of the incident it would not have pro- 
duced any very strong impression upon his convictions. 
Garibaldi was a fact, and Saracinesca did not believe 
that any proclamations would interfere with his march 
unless backed by some more tangible force. Even had 
he known that the guerilla general had been arrested at 
Sinalunga and put in confinement as soon as the procla- 
mation had appeared, the prince would have foreseen 
clearly enough that the prisoner’s escape would be only 


30 


sant’ ilario. 


a question of a few days, since there were manifold evi- 
dences that an understanding existed between Ratazzi' 
and Garibaldi of much the same nature as that which in 
1860 had been maintained between Garibaldi and Cavour 
during the advance upon Naples. The Italian Govern- 
ment kept men under arms to be ready to take advantage 
of any successes obtained by the Garibaldian volunteers, 
and at the same time to suppress the republican tenden- 
cies of the latter, which broke out afresh with every new 
advance, and disappeared, as by magic, under the depress- 
ing influence of a forced retreat. 

The prince knew all these things, and had reflected 
upon them so often that they no longer afforded enough 
interest to keep him awake. The warm September sun 
streamed into the study and fell upon the paper as it 
slowly slipped over the old gentleman’s knees, while his 
head sank lower and lower on his breast. The old enam- 
elled clock upon the chimney-piece ticked more loudly, 
as clocks seem to do when people are asleep and they are 
left to their own devices, and a few belated flies chased 
each other in the sunbeams. 

The silence was broken by the entrance of a servant, 
who would have withdrawn again when he saw that his 
master was napping, had not the latter stirred and raised 
his head before the man had time to get away. Then the 
fellow came forward with an apology and presented a 
visiting-card. The prince stared at the bit of pasteboard, 
rubbed his eyes, stared again, and then laid it upon the 
table beside him, his eyes still resting on the name, 
which seemed so much to surprise him. Then he told 
the footman to introduce the visitor, and a few moments 
later a very tall man entered the room, hat in hand, and 
advanced slowly towards him with the air of a person 
who has a perfect right to present himself but wishes to 
give his host time to recognise him. 

The prince remembered the newcomer very well. The 
closely-buttoned frock-coat showed the man’s imposing 
figure to greater advantage than the dress in which Sara- 
cinesca had last seen him, but there was no mistaking 
the personality. There was the same lean but massive 
face, broadened by the high cheekbones and the promi- 
nent square jawj there were the same piercing black 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


31 


eyes, set near together under eyebrows that met in the 
midst of the forehead, the same thin and cruel lips, and 
the same strongly-marked nose, set broadly on at the 
nostrils, though pointed and keen. Had the prince had 
any doubts as to his visitor’s identity they would have 
b3en dispelled by the man’s great height and immense 
breadth of shoulder, which would have made it hard 
indeed for him to disguise himself had he wished to do 
so. But though very much surprised, Saracinesca had 
no doubts whatever. The only points that were new to 
him in the figure before him were the outward manner 
and appearance, and the dress of a gentleman. 

“ I trust I am not disturbing you, prince? ” The words 
were spoken in a deep, clear voice, and with a notable 
southern accent. 

“ Hot at all. I confess I am astonished at seeing you 
in Borne. Is there anything I can do for you? I shall 
always be grateful to you for having been alive to testify 
to the falsehood of that accusation made against my son. 
Pray sit down. How is your Signora? And the children? 
All well, I hope?” 

“My wife is dead,” returned the other, and the grave 
tones of his bass voice lent solemnity to the simple 
statement. 

“ I am sincerely sorry ” began the prince, but his 

visitor interrupted him. 

“ The children are well. They are in Aquila for the 
present. I have come to establish myself in Borne, and 
my first visit is naturally to yourself, since I have the 
advantage of being your cousin.” 

“Haturally,” ejaculated Saracinesca, though his face 
expressed considerable surprise. 

“Do not imagine that I am going to impose myself 
upon you as a poor relation, ” continued the other with a 
faint smile. “Fortune has been kind to me since we 
met, perhaps as a compensation for the loss I suffered 
in the death of my poor wife. I have a sufficient inde- 
pendence and can hold my own.” 

“ I never supposed ” 

“You might naturally have supposed that I had come 
to solicit your favour, though it is not the case. When 
we parted I was an innkeeper in Aquila. I have no 


32 


sant’ ilarto. 


cause to be ashamed of mj past profession. I only wish 
to let you know that it is altogether past, and that I 
intend to resume the position which my great-grandfather 
foolishly forfeited. As you are the present head of the 
family I judged that it was my duty to inform you of the 
fact immediately.” 

‘‘By all means. I imagined this must be the case 
from your card. You are entirely in your rights, and I 
shall take great pleasure in informing every one of the 
fact. You are the Marchese di San Giacinto, and the inn 
at Aquila no longer exists.” 

“ As these things must be done, once and for always, 
I have brought my papers to Borne,” answered the Alar- 
chese. “They are at your disposal, for you certainly 
have a right to see them, if you like. I will recall to 
your memory the facts of our history, in case you have 
forgotten them.” 

“I know the story well enough,” said Saracinesca. 
“ Our great-grandfathers were brothers. Yours went to 
live in Naples. His son grew up and joined the Trench 
against the King. His lands were forfeited, he married 
and died in obscurity, leaving your father, his only son. 
Your father died young and you again are his only son. 
You married the Signora Felice ” 

“Baldi,” said the Marchese, nodding in confirmation 
of the various statements. 

“The Signora Felice Baldi, by whom you have two 
children ” 

“Boys.” 

“ Two boys. And the Signora Marchesa, I grieve to 
hear, is dead. Is that accurate?” 

“ Perfectly. There is one circumstance, connected with 
our great-grandfathers, which you have not mentioned, 
but which I am sure you remember.” 

“ What is that ? ” asked the prince, fixing his keen 
eyes on his companion’s face. 

“ It is only this, ” replied San Giacinto, calmly. “ My 
great-grandfather was two years older than yours. You 
know he never meant to marry, and resigned the title to 
his younger brother, who had children already. He 
took a wife in his old age, and my grandfather was the 
son born to him. That is why you are so much older 


SANT’ ILARIO. 33 

than I, though we are of the same generation in the 
order of descent.” 

^^Yes,” assented the prince. ^^Tliat accounts for it. 
Will you smoke?” 

Giovanni Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto, 
looked curiously at his cousin as he took the proffered 
cigar. There was something abrupt in the answer which 
attracted his attention and roused his quick suspicions. 
He wondered whether that former exchange of titles, 
and consequent exchange of positions were an unpleasant 
subject of conversation to the prince. But the latter, as 
though anticipating such a doubt in his companion’s 
mind, at once returned to the question with the boldness 
which was natural to him. 

There was a friendly agreement, ” he said, striking a 
match and offering it to the Marchese. I have all the 
documents, and have studied them with interest. It 
might amuse you to see them, some day.” 

should like to see them, indeed,” answered San 
Giacinto. “ They must be very curious. As I was say- 
ing, I am going to establish myself in Eome. It seems 
strange to me to be playing the gentleman — it must seem 
even more odd to you.” 

“ It would be truer to say that you have been playing 
the innkeeper,” observed the prince, courteously. '‘^No 
one would suspect it,” he added, glancing at his com- 
panion’s correct attire. 

“I have an adaptable nature,” said the Marchese, 
calmly. “Besides, I have always looked forward to 
again taking my place in the world. I have acquired a 
little instruction — not much, you will say, but it is suf- 
ficient as the times go; and as for education, it is the 
same for every one, innkeeper or prince. One takes off 
one’s hat, one speaks quietly, one says what is agreeable 
to hear — is it not enough? ” 

“Quite enough,” replied the prince. He was tempted 
to smile at his cousin’s definition of manners, though he 
could see that the man was quite able to maintain his 
position. “ Quite enough, indeed, and as for instruction, 
I am afraid most of us have forgotten our Latin. You 
need have no anxiety on that score. But, tell me, how 
comes it that, having been bred in the south, you prefer 

D 


34 


sant’ ilario. 


to establish yourself in Eome rather than in Naples? 
They say that you Neapolitans do not like us.’’ 

“ I am a Koman by descent, and I wish to become one 
in fact,” returned the Marchese. “Besides,” he added, 
in a peculiarly grave tone of voice, “ I do not like the 
new order of things. Indeed, I have but one favour to 
ask of you, and that is a great one.” 

“ Anything in my power ” 

“ To present me to the Holy Father as one who desires 
to become his faithful subject. Could you do so, do you 
think, without any great inconvenience?” 

“ Eh ! I shall be delighted ! Magari ! ” answered the 
prince, heartily. “ To tell the truth, I was afraid you 
meant to keep your Italian convictions, and that, in 
Eome, would be against you, especially in these stormy 
days. But if you will join us heart and soul you will be 
received with open arms. I shall take great pleasure in 
seeing you make the acquaintance of my son and his wife. 
Come and dine this evening.” 

“ Thank you,” said the Marchese. “I will not fail.” 

After a few more words San Giacinto took his leave, 
and the prince could not but admire the way in which 
this man, who had been brought up among peasants, or 
at best among the small farmers of an outlying district, 
assumed at once an air of perfect equality while allowing 
just so much of respect to appear in his manner as might 
properly be shown by a younger member to the head of 
a great house. When he was gone Saracinesca rang the 
bell. 

“Pasquale,” he said, addressing the old butler who 
answered the summons, “that gentleman who is just 
gone is my cousin, Don Giovanni Saracinesca, who is 
called Marchese di San Giacinto. He will dine here this 
evening. You will call him Eccellenza, and treat him as 
a member of the family. Go and ask the princess if she 
will receive me.” 

Pasquale opened his mental eyes very wide as he 
bowed and left the room. He had never heard of this 
other Saracinesca, and the appearance of a new member 
of the family upon the scene, who must, from his appear- 
ance, have been in existence between thirty and forty 
years, struck him as astonishing in the extreme j for the 


sant’ ilario. 


85 


old servant had been bred up in the house from a boy 
and imagined himself master of all the secrets connected 
with the Saracinesca household. 

He was, indeed, scarcely less surprised than his mas- 
ter, who, although he had been aware for some time past 
that Giovanni Saracinesca existed and was his cousin, 
had never anticipated the event of his coming to Rome, 
and had expected still less that the innkeeper would ever 
assume the title to which he had a right and play the part 
of a gentleman, as he himself had expressed it. There 
was a strange mixture of boldness and foresight in the 
way the old prince had received his new relation. He 
knew the strength of his own position in society, and 
that the introduction of a humble cousin could not pos- 
sibly do him harm. At the worst, people might laugh a 
little among themselves and remark that the Marchese 
must be a nuisance to the Saracinesca. On the other 
hand, the prince was struck from the first with the air 
of self-possession which he discerned in San Giacinto, 
and foresaw that the man would very probably play a 
part in Roman life. He was a man who might be dis- 
liked, but who could not be despised; and since his 
claims to consideration were undeniably genuine, it 
seemed wiser to accept him from the first as a member 
of the family and unhesitatingly to treat him as such. 
After all, he demanded nothing to which he had not a 
clear right from the moment he announced his intention 
of taking his place in the world, and it was certainly far 
wiser to receive him cordially at once, than to draw back 
from acknowledging the relationship because he had been 
brought up in another sphere. 

This was the substance of what Prince Saracinesca 
communicated to his daughter-in-law a few minutes later. 
She listened patiently to all he had to say, only asking 
a question now and then in order to understand more 
clearly what had happened. She was curious to see the 
man whose name had once been so strangely confounded 
with her husband’s by the machinations of the Conte He] 
Perice and Donna Tullia Mayer, and she frankly con- 
fessed her curiosity and her satisfaction at the prospect 
of meeting San Giacinto that evening. While she was 
talking with the prince, Giovanni unexpectedly returned 


36 


sant’ ilario. 


from his walk. He had turned homewards as soon as he 
had sent the military surgeon to Gouache. 

^‘Well, Giovannino,” cried the old gentleman, “the 
prodigal innkeeper has returned to the bosom of the 
family.” 

“ What innkeeper? ” 

“Your worthy namesake, and cousin, Giovanni Sara- 
cinesca, formerly of Aquila.” 

“ Does Madame Mayer want to prove that it is he who 
has married Corona? ” inquired Sant’ Ilario with a laugh. 

“ No, though I suppose he is a candidate for marriage. 
I never was more surprised in my life. His wife is dead. 
He is rich, or says he is. He has his card printed in 
full, ‘Giovanni Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto,’ 
in the most correct manner. He wears an excellent coat, 
and announces his intention of being presented to the 
Pope and introduced to Koman society.” 

Sant’ Ilario stared incredulously at his father, and 
then looked inquiringly at his wife as though to ask if it 
were not all a jest. When he was assured that the facts 
were true he looked grave and slowly stroked his pointed 
black beard, a gesture which was very unusual with him, 
and always accompanied the deepest meditation. 

“ There is nothing to be done but to receive him into 
the family,” he said at last. “But I do not wholly 
believe in his good intentions. We shall see. I shall 
be glad to make his acquaintance.” 

“He is coming to dinner.” 

The ' conversation continued for some time and the 
arrival of San Giacinto was discussed in all its bearings. 
Corona took a very practical view of the question, and 
said that it was certainly best to treat him well, thereby 
relieving her father-in-law of a considerable anxiety. 
He had indeed feared lest she should resent the intro- 
duction of a man who might reasonably be supposed to 
have retained a certain coarseness of manner from his 
early surroundings, and he knew that her consent was 
all-important in such a case, since she was virtually the 
mistress of the house. But Corona regarded the matter 
in much the same light as the old gentleman himself, 
feeling that nothing of such a nature could possibly 
injure the imposing position of her husband’s family, 


sant’ ilario. 


37 


and taking it for granted that no one who had good blood 
in his veins could ever behave outrageously. Of all the 
three, Sant’ Ilario was the most silent and thoughtful, 
for he feared certain consequences from the arrival of 
this new relation which did not present themselves to the 
minds of the others, and was resolved to be cautious 
accordingly, even while appearing to receive San Giacinto 
with all due cordiality. Later in the day he was alone 
with his father for a few minutes. 

^‘Do you like this fellow?” he asked, abruptly. 

“No,” answered the prince. 

“Neither do I, though I have not seen him.” 

“We shall see,” was the old gentleman’s answer. 

The evening came, and at the appointed hour San 
Giacinto was announced. Both Corona and her husband 
were surprised at his imposing appearance, as well as at 
the dignity and self-possession he displayed. His south- 
ern accent was not more noticeable than that of many 
Neapolitan gentlemen, and his conversation, if neither 
very brilliant nor very fluent, was not devoid of interest. 
He talked of the agricultural condition of the new Italy, 
and old Saracinesca and his son were both interested in 
the subject. They noticed, too, that during dinner no 
word escaped him which could give any clue to his former 
occupation or position, though afterwards, when the 
servants were not present, he alluded more than once 
with a frank smile to his experiences as an innkeeper. 
On the whole, he seemed modest and reserved, yet per- 
fectly self-possessed and conscious of his right to be 
where he was. 

Such conduct on the part of such a man did not appear 
so surprising to the Saracinesca household, as it would 
have seemed to foreigners. San Giacinto had said that 
he had an adaptable character, and that adaptability is 
one of the most noticeable features of the Italian race. 
It is not necessary to discuss the causes of this pecul- 
iarity. They would be incomprehensible to the foreigner 
at large, who never has any real understanding of 
Italians. I do not hesitate to say that, without a single 
exception, every foreigner, poet or prose-writer, who has 
treated of these people has more or less grossly misun- 
derstood them. That is a sweeping statement, when it 


38 


sant’ ilario. 


is considered that few men of the highest genius in our 
century have not at one time or another set down upon 
paper their several estimates of the Italian race. The 
requisite for accurately describing people, however, is 
not genius, but knowledge of the subject. The poet 
commonly sees himself in others, and the modern writer 
upon Italy is apt to believe that he can see others in 
himself. The reflection of an Italian upon the mental 
retina of the foreigner is as deceptive as his own outward 
image is when seen upon the polished surface of a con- 
cave mirror; and indeed the character studies of many 
great men, when the subject is taken from a race not 
their own, remind one very forcibly of what may be seen 
by contemplating oneself in the bowl of a bright silver 
spoon. To understand Italians a man must have been 
born and bred among them ; and even then the harder, 
fiercer instinct, which dwells in northern blood, may 
deceive the student and lead him far astray. The 
Italian is an exceedingly simple creature, and is apt to 
share the opinion of the ostrich, who ducks his head and 
believes his whole body is hidden. Foreigners use strong 
language concerning the Italian lie ; but this only proves 
how extremely transparent the deception is. It is indeed 
a singular fact, but one which may often be observed, 
that two Italians who lie systematically will frequently 
believe each other, to their own ruin, with a childlike 
faith rarely found north of the Alps. This seems to me 
to prove that their dishonesty has outgrown their indolent 
intelligence ; and indeed they deceive themselves nearly 
as often as they succeed in deceiving their neighbours. 
In a country where a lie easily finds credence, lying is 
not likely to be elevated to the rank of a fine art. I have 
often wondered how such men as Cesare Borgia suc- 
ceeded in entrapping their enemies by snares which a 
modern northerner would detect from the first and laugh 
to scorn as mere child’s play. 

There is an extraordinary readiness in Italians to fit 
themselves and their lives to circumstances whenever 
they can save themselves troujale by doing so. Their 
constitutions are convenient to this end, for they are 
temperate in most things and do not easily .fall into 
habits which they cannot change at will. The desire to 


SANT’ ILAEIO. 


39 


avoid trouble makes them the most courteous among 
nations; and they are singularly obliging to strangers 
when, by conferring an obligation, they are able to make 
an acquaintance wlio will help them to pass an idle hour 
in agreeable conversation. They are equally surprised, 
whether a stranger suspects them of making advances for 
the sake of extracting money from him, or expresses 
resentment at having been fraudulently induced to part 
with any cash. The beggar in the street howls like a 
madman if you refuse an alms, and calls you an idiot to 
his fellow-mendicant if you give him five centimes. 
The servant says in his heart that his foreign employer 
is a fool, and sheds tears of rage and mortification when 
his shallow devices for petty cheating are discovered. 
And yet the servant, the beggar, the shopkeeper, and the 
gentleman, are obliging sometimes almost to philan- 
thropy, and are ever ready to make themselves agreeable. 

The Marchese di San Giaointo differed from his rela- 
tions, the Saracinesca princes, in that he was a full-blooded 
Italian, and not the result of a cosmopolitan race-fusion, 
like so many of the Roman nobles. He had not the 
Roman traditions, but, on the other hand, he had his 
full share of the national characteristics, together with 
something individual which lifted him above the common 
herd in point of intelligence and in strength. He was a 
noticeable man; all the more so because, with many 
pleasant qualities, his countrymen rarely possess that 
physical and mental combination of size, energy, and 
reserve, which inspires the sort of respect enjoyed by 
imposing personages. 

As he sat talking with the family after dinner on the 
evening of his first introduction to the household what 
passed in his mind and in the minds of his hosts can be 
easily stated. 

Sant’ Ilario, whose ideas were more clear upon most 
subjects than those of his father or his wife, said to 
himself that he did not like the man; that he suspected 
him, and believed he had some hidden intention in com- 
ing to Rome ; that it would be wise to watch him per- 
petually and to question everything he did; but that 
he was undeniably a relation, possessing every right to 
consideration, and entitled to be treated with a certain 


40 


sant’ ilario. 


familiarity; that, finally and on the whole, he was a 
nuisance, to be borne with a good grace and a sufficient 
show of cordiality. 

San Giacinto, for his part, was deeply engaged in 
maintaining the exact standard of manners which he knew 
to be necessary for the occasion, and his thoughts con- 
cerning his relatives were not yet altogether defined. It 
was his intention to take his place among them, and he 
was doing his best to accomplish this object as speedily 
and quietly as possible. He had not supposed that 
princes and princesses were in any way different from 
other human beings except by the accidents of wealth 
and social position. Master of these two requisites 
there was no reason why he should not feel as much at 
home with the Saracinesca as he had felt in the society 
of the mayor and municipal council of Aquila, who pos- 
sessed those qualifications also, though in a less degree. 
The Saracinesca probably thought about most questions 
very much as he himself did, or if there were any differ- 
ence in their mode of thinking it was due to Eoman 
prejudice and tradition rather than to any peculiarity 
inherent in the organisation of the members of the higher 
aristocracy. If he should find himself in any dilemma 
owing to his ignorance of social details he would not 
hesitate to apply to the prince for information, since it 
was by no means his fault if he had been brought up an 
innkeeper and was now to be a nobleman. His imme- 
diate object was to place himself among his equals, and 
his next purpose was to marry again, in his new rank, a 
woman of good position and fortune. Of this matter 
he intended to speak to the prince in due time, when he 
should have secured^ the first requisite to his marriage 
by establishing himself firmly in society. He meant to 
apply to the prince, ostensibly as to the head of the 
family, thereby showing a deference to that dignity, 
which he supposed would be pleasing to the old gentle- 
man; but he had not forgotten in his calculations the 
pride which old Saracinesca must naturally feel in his 
race, and which would probably induce him to take very 
great pains in finding a suitable wife for San Giacinto 
rather than permit the latter to contract a discreditable 
alliance. 


sant’ ilario. 


41 


San Giacinto left the house at half-past nine o’clock, 
under the pretext of another engagement, for he did not 
mean to weary his relations with too much of his com- 
pany in the first instance. When he was gone the three 
looked at each other in silence for some moments. 

He has surprisingly good manners, for an innkeeper,” 
said Corona at last. “JSTo one will ever suspect his 
former life. But I do not like him.” 

“Nor I,” said the prince. 

He wants something,” said Sant’ Ilario. “And he 
will probably get it,” he added, after a short pause. 
“He has a determined face.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Anastase Gouache recovered rapidly from his injuries, 
but not so quickly as he wished. There was trouble in 
the air, and many of his comrades were already gone to 
the frontier where the skirmishing with the irregular 
volunteers of Garibaldi’s guerilla force had now begun 
in earnest. To be confined to the city at such a time 
was inexpressibly irksome to the gallant young French- 
man, who had a genuine love of fighting in him, and 
longed for the first sensation of danger and the first 
shower of whistling bullets. But his inactivity was 
inevitable, and he was obliged to submit with the best 
grace he could, hoping only that all might not be over 
before he was well enough to tramp out and see some 
service with his companions -in-arms. 

The situation was indeed urgent. The first article of 
the famous convention between France and Italy, ratified 
in September, 1864, read as follows : — 

“ Italy engages not to attack the actual territory of the 
Holy Father, and to prevent, even by force, all attack 
coming from outside against such territory.” 

Relying upon the observance of this chief clause, 
France had conscientiously executed the condition im- 
posed by the second article, which provided that all 


42 


sant’ ilaeio. 


French troops should be withdrawn from the States of 
the Church. The promise of Italy to prevent invasion 
by force applied to Garibaldi and his volunteers. Accord- 
ingly, on the 24th of September, 1867, the Italian Gov- 
ernment issued a proclamation against the band and its 
proceedings, and arrested Garibaldi at Sinalunga, in the 
neighbourhood of Arezzo. This was the only force 
employed, and it may be believed that the Italian 
Government firmly expected that the volunteers would 
disperse as soon as they found themselves without a 
leader; and had proper measures been taken for keeping 
the general in custody this would in all probability have 
followed very shortly, as his sons, who were left at large, 
did not possess any of their father’s qualifications for 
leadership. Garibaldi, however, escaped eighteen days 
later, and again joined his band, which had meanwhile 
been defeated by the Pope’s troops in a few small 
engagements, and had gained one or two equally insig- 
nificant advantages over the latter. As soon as it was 
known that Garibaldi was again at large, a simultaneous 
movement began, the numerous Garibaldian emissaries 
who had arrived in Eome stirring up an attempt at 
insurrection within the city, while Garibaldi himself 
made a bold dash' and seized Monte Eotondo, another 
force at the same time striking at Sutbiaco, which, by a 
strange ignorance of the mountains. Garibaldi appears 
to have believed to be the southern key to the Campagna. 
In consequence of the protestations of the French min- 
ister to the court of Italy, and perhaps, too, in conse- 
quence of the approach of a large body of French troops 
by sea, the Italian Government again issued a proclama- 
tion against Garibaldi, who, however, remained in his 
strong position at Monte Eotondo. Finally, on the 30th 
of October, the day on which the French troops re-entered 
Eome, the Italians made a show of interfering in the 
Pope’s favour. General Menatiea authorising the Italian 
forces to enter the Papal States in order to maintain 
order. They did not, however, do more than make a 
short advance, and no active measures were taken, but 
Garibaldi was routed on the 3d and 4th of November by 
the Papal forces, and his band being dispersed the inci- 
dent was at an end. But for the armed intervention of 


sant’ ilario. 


43 


France the result would have been that which actually 
came about in 1870, when, the same Convention being 
still valid, the French were prevented by their own 
disasters from sending a force to the assistance of the 
Pope. 

It is not yet time to discuss the question of the 
annexation of the States of the Church to the kingdom 
of Italy. It is sufficient to have shown that the move- 
ment of 1867 took place without any actual violation of 
the letter of the Convention. The spirit in which the 
Italian G-overnment acted might be criticised at length. 
It is sufficient however to notice that the Italian Gov- 
ernment was, as it still is, a parliamentary one; and to 
add that parliamentary government, in general, exhibits 
its weakest side in the emergency of war, as its greatest 
advantages are best appreciated in times of peace. In 
the Italian Parliament of that day, as in that of the 
present time, there was a preponderance of representa- 
tives who considered Rome to be the natural capital of 
the country, and who were as ready to trample upon 
treaties for the accomplishment of what they believed a 
righteous end, as most parliaments have everywhere 
shown themselves in similar circumstances. That major- 
ity differed widely, indeed, in opinion from Garibaldi 
and Mazzini, but they conceived that they had a right 
to take full advantage of any revolution the latter 
chanced to bring about, and that it was their duty to 
their country to direct the stream of disorder into a 
channel which should lead to the aggrandisement of 
Italy, by making use of Italy’s standing army. 

The defenders of the Papal States found themselves 
face to face, not with any organised and disciplined 
force, but with a horde of brutal ruffians and half-grown 
lads, desperate in that delight of unbridled license which 
lias such attractions for the mob in all countries; and 
all alike. Zouaves, native troops and Frenchmen, were 
incensed to the highest degree by the conduct of their 
enemies. It would be absurd to make the Italian Gov- 
ernment responsible for the atrocious defiling of churches, 
the pillage and the shocking crimes of all sorts, which 
marked the advance or retreat of the Garibaldians ; but 
it is equally absurd to deny that a majority of the Ital- 


44 


sant’ ilario. 


ians regarded these doings as a means to a very desirable 
end, and, if they had not been hindered by the French, 
would have marched a couple of army corps in excellent 
order to the gates of Eome through the channel opened 
by a mob of lawless insurgents. 

Anastase Gouache was disgusted with his state of 
forced inaction as he paced the crowded pavement of 
the Corso every afternoon for three weeks alter his acci- 
dent, smoking endless cigarettes, and cursing the fate 
which kept him an invalid at home when his fellow- 
soldiers were enjoying themselves amidst the smell of 
gunpowder and the adventures of frontier skirmishing. 
It was indeed bad luck, he thought, to have worn the 
uniform during nearly two years of perfect health and 
then to be disabled just when the lighting began. He 
had one consolation, however, in the midst of his annoy- 
ance, and he made the most of it. He had been fasci- 
nated by Donna Faustina Montevarchi’s brown eyes, and 
for lack of any other interest upon which to expend his 
energy he had so well employed his time that he was 
now very seriously in love with that young lady. Among 
her numerous attractions was one which had a powerful 
influence on the young artist, namely, the fact that she 
was, according to all human calculations, absolutely 
beyond his reach. Nothing had more charm for Gouache, 
as for many gifted and energetic young men, than that 
which it must require a desperate e&rt to get, if it could 
be got at all. Frenchmen, as well as Italians, consider 
marriage so much in the light of a mere contract which 
must be settled between notaries and ratified by parental 
assent, that to love a young girl seems to them like an 
episode out of a fairy tale, enchantingly novel and alto- 
gether delightful. To us, who consider love as a usual 
if not an absolutely necessary preliminary to marriage, 
this point of view is hardly conceivable ; but it is enough 
to tell a Frenchman that you have married your wife 
because you loved her, and not because your parents or 
your circumstances arranged the match for you, to hear 
him utter the loudest exclamations of genuine surprise 
and admiration, declaring that his ideal of happiness, 
which he considers of course as quite unattainable, 
would be to marry the woman of his affections. The 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


45 


immediate result of a state in whicli that sort of bliss is 
considered to be generally beyond the grasp of humanity 
has been to produce the moral peculiarities of the French 
novel, of the French play, and of the French household, 
as it is usually exhibited in books and on the stage. 

The artist-Zouave was made of determined stuff. It 
was not for nothing that he had won the great prize 
which brought him to the Academy in Home, nor was it 
out of mere romantic idleness that he had thrown over 
the feeble conspiracies of Madame Mayer and her set in 
order to wear a uniform. He had profound convictions, 
though he was not troubled with any great number of 
them. Each new one which took hold of him marked 
an epoch in his young life, and generally proved tena- 
cious in proportion as he had formerly regarded it as 
absurd; and it was a proof of the sound balance of his 
mind that the three or four real convictions which he 
had accumulated during his short life were in no way 
contradictory to each other. On the contrary, each one 
seemed closely bound up with the rest, and appeared to 
bring a fresh energy to that direct action which, with 
Anastase, was the only possible result of any belief 
whatsoever. 

There was therefore a goodly store of logic in his mad- 
ness, and though, like Childe Harold, he had sighed to 
many, and at present loved but one, yet he was deter- 
mined, if it were possible, that this loved one should be 
his ; seeing that to sigh for anything, and not to take it 
if it could be taken, was the part of a boy and not of a 
strong man. Moreover, although the social difficulties 
which lay in his way were an obstacle which would have 
seemed insurmountable to many, there were two consid- 
erations which gave Anastase some hope of ultimate suc- 
cess. In the first place Donna Faustina herself was not 
indifferent; and, secondly, Anastase was no longer the 
humble student who had come to Rome some years earlier 
with nothing but his pension in his pocket and his talent 
in his fingers. He was certainly not of ancient lineage, 
but since he had attained that position which enabled 
him to be received as an equal in the great world, and 
had by his skill accumulated a portion of that filthy lucre 
which is the platform whereon society moves and has its 


46 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


exclusive being, he had the advantage of talking to 
Donna Faustina, wherever he met her, in spite of her 
father’s sixty-four quarterings. Nor did those meetings 
take place only under the auspices of so much heraldry 
and blazon, as will presently appear. 

At that period of the year, and especially during such 
a time of disturbance, there was no such thing as gaiety 
possible in E-ome. People met quietly in little knots at 
each other’s houses and talked over the state of the coun- 
try, or walked and drove as usual in the villas and on 
the Pincio. When society cannot be gay it is very much 
inclined to grow confidential, to pull a long face, and to 
say things which, if uttered above a whisper, would be 
considered extremely shocking, but which, being commu- 
nicated, augmented, criticised, and passed about quickly 
wi hout much noise, are considered exceedingly interest- 
ing. When every one is supposed to be talking of poli- 
tics it is very easy for every one to talk scandal, and to 
construct neighbourly biography of an imaginary character 
which shall presently become a part of contemporary 
history. On the whole, society would almost as gladly 
do this as dance. In those days of which I am speaking, 
therefore, there were many places where two or three, 
and sometimes as many as ten, were gathered together in 
council, ostensibly for the purpose of devising means 
whereby the Holy Father might overcome his enemies, 
though they were very often engaged in criticising the 
indecent haste exhibited by their best friends in yielding 
to the wiles of Satan. 

There were several of these rallying points, among 
which may be chiefly noticed the Palazzo Valdarno, the 
Palazzo Saracinesca, and the Palazzo Montevarchi. In 
the first of these three it may be observed in passing 
that there was a division of opinion, the old people 
being the most rigid of conservatives, while the children 
declared as loudly as they dared that they were for Vic- 
tor Emmanuel and United Italy. The Saracinesca, on the 
other hand, were firmly united and determined to stand 
by the existing order of things. Lastly, the Montevarchi 
all took their opinions from the head of the house, and 
knew very well that they would submit like sheep to be 
led whichever way was most agreeable to the old prince. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


47 


The friends who frequented those various gatherings 
were of course careful to say whatever was most sure to 
please their hosts, and after the set speeches were made 
most of them fell to their usual occupation of talking 
about each other. 

Gouache was an old friend of the Saracinesca, and 
came whenever he pleased; since his accident, too, he 
had become better acquainted with the Monte varchi, and 
was always a welcome guest, as he generally brought the 
latest news of the lighting, as well as the last accounts 
from France, which he easily got through his friendship 
with the young attaches of his embassy. It is not sur- 
prising therefore that he should have found so many 
opportunities of meeting Donna Faustina, especially as 
Corona di SanF Ilario had taken a great fancy to the 
young girl and invited her constantly to the house. 

On the very first occasion when Gouache called upon 
the Princess Montevarchi in order to express again his 
thanks for the kindness he had received, he found the 
room half full of people. Faustina was sitting alone, 
turning over the pages of a book, and no one seemed to 
pay any attention to her. After the usual speeches to 
the hostess Gouache sat down beside her. She raised 
her brown eyes, recognised him, and smiled faintly. 

“ What a wonderful contrast you are enjoying, Donna 
Faustina,” said the Zouave. 

‘‘How so? I confess it seems monotonous enough.” 

“ I mean that it is a great change for you, from the 
choir of the Sacro Cuore, from the peace of a convent, to 
this atmosphere of war.” 

“Yes; I wish I were back again.” 

“You do not like what you have seen of the world, 
Midemoiselle? It is very natural. If the world were 
always like this its attraction would not be dangerous. 
It is the pomps and vanities that are delightful.” 

“I wish they would begin then,” answered Donna 
Faustina with more natural frankness than is generally 
found in young girls of her education. 

“But were you not taught by the good sisters that' 
those things are of the devil?” asked Gouache with a 
smile. 

“Of course. But Flavia says they are very nice.” 


48 


sant’ ilaeto. 


Gouache imagined that T'lavia ought to know, but he 
thought fit to conceal his conviction. 

‘‘You mean Donna Flavia, your sister, Mademoi- 
selle?’^ 

“Yes.” 

“I suppose you are very fond of her, are you not? It 
must be very pleasant to have a sister so nearly of one’s 
own age in the world.” 

“ She is much older than I, but I think we shall be 
very good friends.” 

“ Your family must be almost as much strangers to you 
as the rest of the wmrld,” observed Gouache. “ Of course 
you have only seen them occasionally for a long time 
past. You are fond of reading, I see.” 

He made this remark to change the subject, and glanced 
at the book the young girl still held in her hand. 

“ It is a new book, ” she said, opening the volume at 
the title-page. “It is Manon Lescaut. Flavia has read 
it — it is by the Abbe Prevost. Do you know him?” 

Gouache did not know whether to laugh or to look 
grave. 

“Did your mother give it to you?” he asked. 

“No, but she says that as it is by an abbe, she sup- 
poses it must be very moral. It is true that it has not 
the imprimatur, but being by a priest it cannot possibly 
be on the Index.” 

“ I do not know, ” replied Gouache, “ Prevost was cer- 
tainly in holy orders, but I do not know him, as he died 
rather more than a hundred years ago. You see the book 
is not new.” 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed Donna Faustina, “ I thought it was. 
Why do you laugh? Am I very ignorant not to know all 
about it?” 

“No, indeed. Only, you will pardon me. Mademoi- 
selle, if I offer a suggestion. You see I am French and 
know a little about these matters. You will permit 
me?” 

. Faustina opened her brown eyes very wide, and nodded 
gravely. 

“ If I were you, I would not read that book yet. You 
are too young.” 

• “You seem to forget that I am eighteen years old. 
Monsieur Gouache.” 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


49 


not at all. But five and twenty is a better age 
to read such books. Believe me,” he added seriously, 
“that story is not meant for you.” 

Faustina looked at him for a few seconds and then laid 
the volume on the table, pushing it away from her with 
a puzzled air. Gouache was inwardly much amused at 
the idea of finding himself the moral preceptor of a young 
girl he scarcely knew, in the house of her parents, who 
passed for the most strait-laced of their kind. A feeling 
of deep resentment against Flavia, however, began to 
rise beneath his first sensation of surprise. 

“What are books for?” asked Donna Faustina, with 
a little sigh. “ The good ones are dreadfully dull, and 
it is wrong to read the amusing ones — until one is mar- 
ried. I wonder why? ” 

Gouache did not find any immediate answer and might 
have been seriously embarrassed had not Giovanni Sant’ 
Ilario come up just then. Gouache rose to relinquish his 
seat to the newcomer, and as he passed before the table 
deftly turned over the book with his finger so that the 
title should not be visible. It jarred disagreeably on his 
sensibilities to think that Giovanni might see a copy of 
Marion Lescaut lying by the elbow of Donna Faustina 
Montevarchi. Sant’ Ilario did not see the action and 
probably would not have noticed it if he had. 

Anastase pondered all that afternoon and part of the 
next morning over his short conversation, and the only 
conclusion at which he arrived was that Faustina was 
the most fascinating girl he had ever met. When he 
compared the result produced in his mind with his ac- 
curate recollection of what had passed between them, he 
laughed at his haste and called himself a fool for yield- 
ing to such nonsensical ideas. The conversation of a 
young girl, he argued, could only be amusing for a short 
time. He wondered what he should say at their next 
meeting, since all such talk, according to his notions, 
must inevitably consist of commonplaces. And yet at 
the end of a quarter of an hour of such meditation he 
found that he was constructing an interview which was 
anything but dull, at least in his own anticipatory 
opinion. 

Meanwhile the first ten days of October passed in 

E 


50 


sant’ ilario. 


comparative quiet. The news of Garibaldi’s arrest pro- 
duced temporary lull iu the excitement felt in lioine, 
although the real struggle was yet to come. People 
observed to each other that strange faces were to be seen 
in the streets, but as no one could enter without a proper 
passport, very little anxiety gained the public mind. 

Gouache saw Faustina very often during the month 
that followed his accident. Such good fortune would 
have been impossible under any other circumstances, 
but, as has been explained, there were numerous little 
social confabulations on foot, for people were drawn to- 
gether by a vague sense of common danger, and the fre- 
quent meetings of the handsome Zouave with the 
youngest of the Montevarchi passed unnoticed in the 
general stir. The old princess indeed often saw the two 
togethei, but partly owing to her English breeding, and 
partly bscause Gouache was not in the least eligible or 
possible as a husband for her daughter, she attached no 
importance to the acquaintance. The news that Gari- 
baldi was again at large caused great excitement, and 
every day brought fresh news of small engagements 
along the frontier. Gouache was not yet quite recov- 
ered, though he felt as strong as ever, and applied every 
day for leave to go to the front. At last, on the 22d of 
October, the surgeon pronounced him to be completely 
recovered, and Anastase was ordered to leave the city on 
the following morning at daybreak. 

As he mounted the sombre staircase of the Palazzo 
Saracinesca on the afternoon previous to his departure, 
the predominant feeling in his breast was great satisfac- 
tion and joy at being on the eve of seeing active service, 
and he himself was surprised at the sharp pang he suf- 
fered in the anticipation of bidding farewell to his 
friends. He knew what friend it was whom he dreaded 
to leave, and how bitter that parting would be, for which 
three weeks earlier he could have summoned a neat 
speech expressing just so much of feeling as should be 
calculated to raise an interest in the hearer, and prompted 
by just so much delicate regret as should impart a savour 
of romance to his march on the next day. It was differ- 
ent now. 

Donna Faustina was in the room, as he had reason to 


sant’ ilario. 


51 


expect, but it was several minutes before Anastase could 
summon the determination necessary to go to her side. 
She was standing near the piano, which faced outwards 
towards the body of the room, but was screened by a 
semicircular arrangement of plants, a novel idea lately 
introduced by Corona, who was weary of the stiff old- 
fashioned way of setting all the furniture against the 
wall. Faustina was standing at this point therefore, 
when Gouache made towards her, having done homage 
to Corona and to the other ladies in the room. His 
attention was arrested for a moment by the sight of San 
Giacinto’s gigantic figure. The cousin of the house was 
standing before Flavia Montevarchi, bending slightly 
towards her and talking in low tones. His magnificent 
proportions made him by far the most noticeable person 
in the room, and it is no wonder that Gouache paused 
and looked at him, mentally observing that the two would 
make a fine couple. 

As he stood still he became aware that Corona herself 
was at his side. He glanced at her with something of 
inquiry in his eyes, and was about to speak when she 
made him a sign to follow her. They sat down together 
in a deserted corner at the opposite end of the room. 

“I have something to say to you. Monsieur Gouache,” 
she said, in a low voice, as she settled herself against the , 
cushions. I do not know that I have any right to speak,' 
except that of a good friend — and of a woman.” 
am at your orders, princess.” 

‘‘Ho, I have no orders to give you. I have only a 
suggestion to make. I have watched you often during 
the last month. My advice begins with a question. Do 
you love her?” 

Gouache’s first instinct was to express the annoyance he 
felt at this interrogation. He moved quickly and glanced 
sharply at Corona’s velvet eyes. Before the words that 
were on his lips could be spoken he remembered all the 
secret reverence and respect he had felt for this woman 
since he had first known her, he remembered how he had 
always regarded her as a sort of goddess, a superior being, 
at once woman and angel, placed far beyond the reach of 
mortals like himself. His irritation vanished as quickly 
as it had arisen. But Corona had seen it. 


52 


sant’ ilario. 


“Are you angry?” she asked. 

“If you knew how I worship you, you would know 
that I am not,” answered Gouache with a strange sim- 
plicity. 

For an instant the princess’s deep eyes flashed and a 
dark blush mounted through her olive skin. She drew 
back, rather proudly. A delicate, gentle smile played 
round the soldier’s mouth. 

“ Perhaps it is your turn to be angry, Madame, ” he 
said, quietly. “ But you need not be. I would say it to 
your husband, as I would say it to you in his presence. 
I worship you. You are the most beautiful woman in 
the world, the most nobly good. Everybody knows it, 
why should I not say it? I wish I were a little child, 
and that you were my mother. Are you angry still?” 

Corona was silent, and her eyes grew soft again as she 
looked kindly at the man beside her. She did not 
understand him, but she knew that he meant to express 
something which was not bad. Gouache waited for her 
to speak. 

“ It was not for that I asked you to come with me, ” 
she said at last. 

“ I am glad I said it, ” replied Gouache. “ I am going 
away to-morrow, and it might never have been said. 
You asked me if I loved her. I trust you. I say, yes, 
I do. I am going to say good-bye this afternoon.” 

“ I am sorry you love her. Is it serious? ” 

“Absolutely, on my part. Why are you sorry? Is 
there anything unnatural in it?” 

“No, on the contrary, it is too natural. Our lives are 
unnatural. You cannot marry her. It seems brutal to 
tell you so, but you must know it already.” 

“ There was once a little boy in Paris, Madame, who 
did not have enough to eat every day, nor enough clothes 
when the north wind blew. But he had a good heart. 
His name was Anastase Gouache.” 

“My dear friend,” said Corona, kindly, “the atmos- 
phere of Casa Montevarchi is colder than the north wind. 
A man may overcome almost anything more easily than 
the old-fashioned prejudices of a Boman prince.” 

“You do not forbid me to try?” 

“Would the prohibition make any difference?” 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


53 


am not sure.” Gouache paused and looked long at 
the princess. “No,” he said at last, “I am afraid not.” 

“In that case I can only say one thing. You are a 
man of honour. Do your best not to make her uselessly 
unhappy. Win her if you can, by any fair means. But 
she has a heart, and I am very fond of the child. If any 
harm comes to her I shall hold you responsible. If you 
love her, think what it would be should she love you 
and be married to another man.” 

A shade of sadness darkened Corona’s brow, as she 
remembered those terrible months of her own life. 
Gouache knew what she meant and was silent for a few 
moments. 

“ I trust you, ” said she, at last. “ And since you are 
going to-morrow, God bless you. You are going in a 
good cause.” 

She held out her hand as she rose to leave him, and he 
bent over it and touched it with his lips, as he would 
have kissed the hand of his mother. Then, skirting the 
little assembly of people, Anastase went back towards 
the piano, in search of Donna Faustina. He found her 
alone, as young girls are generally to be found in Roman 
drawing-rooms, unless there are two’ of them present to 
sit together. 

“What have you been talking about with the prin- 
cess?” asked Donna Faustina when Gouache was seated 
beside her. 

“Could you see from here?” asked Gouache instead 
of answering. “I thought the plants would have hin- 
dered you.” 

“ I saw you kiss her hand when you got up, and so I 
supposed that the conversation had been serious.” 

“Less serious than ours must be,” replied Anastase, 
sadly. “ I was saying good-bye to her, and now ” 

“Good-bye? Why ?” Faustina checked herself 

and looked away to hide her pallor. She felt cold, and 
a slight shiver passed over her slender figure. 

“I am going to the front to-morrow morning.” 

There was a long silence, during which the two looked 
at each other from time to time, neither finding courage 
to speak. Since Gouache had been in the room it had 
grown dark, and as yet but one lamp had been brought. 


64 


sant’ ilakio. 


The young man’s eyes sought those he loved in the dusk, 
and as his hand stole out it met another, a tender, ner- 
vous hand, trembling with emotion. They did not heed 
what was passing near them. 

As though their silence were contagious, the conversa- 
tion died away, and there was a general lull, such as 
sometimes falls upon an assemblage of people who have 
been talking for some time. Then, through the deep 
windows there came up a sound of distant uproar, 
mingled with occasional sharp detonations, few indeed, 
but the more noticeable for their rarity. Suddenly the 
door of the drawing-room burst open, and a servant’s 
voice was heard speaking in a loud key, the coarse accents 
and terrified tone contrasting strangely with the sounds 
generally heard in such a place. 

“Excellency! Excellency! The revolution! Garb 
baldi is at the gates! The Italians are coming! Ma' 
donna! Madonna! The revolution, jEcceZZe7i2:a 

The man was mad with fear. Every one spoke at 
once. Some laughed, thinking the man crazy. Others, 
who had heard the distant noise from the streets, drew 
back and looked nervously towards the door. Then 
Sant’ Ilario’s clear, strong voice, rang like a clarion 
through the room. 

“ Bar the gates. Shut the blinds all over the house — 
it is of no use to let them break good windows. Don’t 
stand there shivering like a fool. It is only a mob.” 

Before he had finished speaking, San Giacinto was 
calmly bolting the blinds of the drawing-room windows, 
fastening each one as steadily and securely as he had 
been wont to put up the shutters of his inn at Aquila in 
the old days. 

In the dusky corner by the piano Gouache and Faustina 
were overlooked in the general confusion. There was no 
time for reflection, for at the first words of the servant 
Anastase knew that he must go instantly to his post. 
Faustina’s little hand was still clasped in his, as they 
both sprang to their feet. Then with a sudden movement 
he clasped her in his arms and kissed her passionately. 

“ Good-bye — my beloved ! ” 

The girl’s arms were twined closely about him, and 
her eyes looked up to his with a wild entreaty. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


55 


“You are safe here, my darling — good-bye!” 

“Where are you going?” 

“To the Serristori barracks. God keep you safe till 
I come back — good-bye ! ” 

“I will go with you,” said Faustina, with a strange 
look of determination in her angelic face. 

Gouache smiled, even then, at the mad thought which 
presented itself to the girPs mind. Once more he kissed 
her, and then, she knew not how, he was gone. Other 
persons had come near them, shutting the windows 
rapidly, one after the other, in anticipation of danger 
from without. With instinctive modesty Faustina with- 
drew her arms from the young man’s neck and shrank 
back. In that moment he disappeared in the crowd. 

Faustina stared wildly about her for a few seconds, 
confused and stunned by the suddenness of what had 
passed, above all by the thought that the man she loved 
was gone from her side to meet his death. Then with- 
out hesitation she left the room. No one hindered her, 
for the Saracinesca men were gone to see to the defences 
of the house, and Corona was already by the cradle of 
her child. No one noticed the slight figure as it slipped 
through the door and was gone in the darkness of the 
.unlighted halls. All was confusion and noise and flash- 
ing of passing lights as the servants hurried about, try- 
ing to obey orders in spite of their terror. Faustina 
glided like a shadow down the vast staircase, slipped 
through one of the gates just as the bewildered porter 
was about to close it, and in a moment was out in the 
midst of the multitude that thronged the dim streets — 
a mere child and alone, facing a revolution in the dark. 


CHAPTER V. 

Gouache made his way as fast as he could to the bridge 
of Sant’ Angelo, but his progress was constantly impeded 
by moving crowds — bodies of men, women, and children- 
rushing frantically together at the corners of the streets 


66 


SANT' ILARIO. 


and then surging onward in the direction of the resultant 
produced by their combined forces in the shock. There 
was loud and incoherent screaming of women and shout- 
ing of men, out of which occasionally a few words could 
be distinguished, more often ^‘Yiva Pio Nono!’’ or 
“ Viva la Kepubblica! than anything else. The scene 
of confusion baffled description. A company of infantry 
was filing out of the castle of Sant' Angelo on to the 
bridge, where it was met by a dense multitude of people 
coming from the opposite direction. A squadron of 
mounted gendarmes came up from the Borgo Nuovo at 
the same moment, and half a dozen cabs were jammed 
in between the opposing masses of the soldiers and the 
people. The officer at the head of the column of foot- 
soldiers loudly urged the crowd to make way, and the 
latter, consisting chiefly of peaceable but terrified citi- 
zens, attempted to draw back, while the weight of those 
behind pushed them on. Gouache, who was in the front 
of the throng, was allowed to enter the file of infantry, in 
virtue of his uniform, and attempted to get through and 
make his way to the opposite bank. But with the best 
efforts he soon found himself unable to move, the sol- 
diers being wedged together as tightly as the people. 
Presently the crowd in the piazza seemed to give way 
and the column began to advance again, bearing Gouache 
backwards in the direction he had come. He managed 
to get to the parapet, however, by edging sideways 
through the packed ranks. 

“ Give me your shoulder, comrade ! ” he shouted to the 
man next to him. The fellow braced himself, and in an 
instant the agile Zouave was on the narrow parapet, 
running along as nimbly as a cat, and winding himself 
past the huge statues at every half-dozen steps. He 
jumped down at the other end and ran for the Borgo 
Santo Spirito at the top of his speed. The broad space 
was almost deserted and in three minutes he was before 
the gates of the barracks, which were situated on the 
right-hand side of the street, just beyond the College of 
the Penitentiaries and opposite the church of San Spirito 
in Sassia. 

Meanwhile Donna Paustina JMontevarchi was alone in 
the streets. In desperate emergencies young and ner- 


sant’ ilario. 


67 


vously-organised people most commonly act in accord- 
ance with the dictates of the predominant passion by 
which they are influenced. Very generally that passion 
is terror, but when it is not, it is almost impossible to 
calculate the consequences which may follow. When 
the whole being is dominated by love and by the greatest 
anxiety for the safety of the person loved, the weakest 
woman will do deeds which might make a brave man 
blush for his courage. This was precisely Faustina’s 
case. 

If any man says that he understands women he is 
convicted of folly by his own speech, seeing that they 
are altogether incomprehensible. Of men, it may be 
sufficient for general purposes to say with David that 
they are all liars, even though we allow that they may 
be all curable of the vice of falsehood. Of women, 
however, there is no general statement which is true. 
The one is brave to heroism, the next cowardly in a 
degree fantastically comic. The one is honest, the other 
faithless; the one contemptible in her narrowness of 
soul, the next supremely noble in broad truth as the 
angels in heaven ; the one trustful, the other suspicious ; 
this one gentle as a dove, that one grasping and venom- 
ous as a strong serpent. The hearts of women are as» 
the streets of a great town — some broad and straight 
and clean; some dim and narrow and winding; or as the 
edifices and buildings of that same city, wherein there 
are holy temples, at which men worship in calm and 
peace, and dens where men gamble away the souls given 
^em by God against the living death they call pleasure, 
which is doled out to them by the devil ; in which there 
are quiet dwellings, and noisy places of public gathering, 
fair palaces and loathsome charnel-houses, where the 
dead are heaped together, even as our dead sins lie 
ghastly and unburied in that dark chamber of the soul, 
whose gates open of their own selves and shall not be 
sealed while there is life in us to suffer. Dost thou 
boast that thou knowest the heart of woman? Go to, 
thou more than fool ! The heart of woman containeth 
all things, good and evil; and knowest thou then all 
that is? 

Donna Faustina was no angel. She had not that lofty 


58 


SANT' ILARIO. 


calmness which we attribute to the angelic character. 
She was very young, utterly inexperienced and ignorant 
of the world. The idea which over-towers all other ideas 
was the first which had taken hold upon her^ and under 
its strength she was like a flower before the wind. She 
was not naturally of the heroic type either, as Corona 
d’Astrardente had been, and perhaps was still, capable 
of sacrifice for the ideal of duty, able to suffer torment 
rather than debase herself by yielding, strong to stem 
the torrent of a great passion until she had the right to 
abandon herself to its mighty flood. Faustina was a 
younger and a gentler woman, not knowing what she did 
from the moment her heart began to dictate her actions, 
willing, above all, to take the suggestion of her soul as a 
command, and, because she knew no evil, rejoicing in 
an abandonment which might well have terrified one who 
knew the world. 

She already loved Anastase intensely. Under the 
circumstances of his farewell, the startling effect of 
the announcement of a revolution, the necessity under 
which, as a soldier, he found himself of leaving her 
instantly in order to face a real danger, with his first 
kiss warm upon her lips, and with the frightful convic- 
tion that if he left her it might be the last — under all 
the emotions brought about by these things, half mad 
with love and anxiety, it was not altogether wonderful 
that she acted as she did. She could not have explained 
it, for the impulse was so instinctive that she did not 
comprehend it, and the deed followed so quickly upon 
the thought that there was no time for reflection. She 
fled from the room and from the palace, out into the 
street, wholly unconscious of danger, like a creature in 
a dream. 

The crowd which had impeded Gouache’s progress was 
already thinning when Faustina reached the pavement. 
She was born and bred in Fome, and as a child, before 
the convent days, had been taken to walk many a time 
in the neighbourhood of Saint Peter’s. She knew well 
enough where the Serristori barracks were situated,, and 
turned at once towards Sant’ Angelo. There were still 
many people about, most of them either hurrying in the 
direction whence the departing uproar still proceeded, 


sant’ ilario. 


59 


or running homewards to get out of danger. Few noticed 
her, and for some time no one hindered her progress, 
though it was a strange sight to see a fair young girl, 
dressed in the fashion of the time which so completely 
distinguished her from Roman women of lower station, 
running at breathless speed through the dusky streets. 

Suddenly she lost her way. Coming down the Yia de’ 
Coronari she turned too soon to the right and found 
herself in the confusing byways which form a small 
labyrinth around the church of San Salvatore in Lauro. 
She had entered a blind alley on the left when she ran 
against two men, who unexpectedly emerged from one of 
those underground wine-shops which are numerous in 
that' neighbourhood. They were talking in low and 
earnest tones, and one of them staggered backward as 
the young girl rushed upon him in the dark. Instinc- 
tively the man grasped her and held her tightly by the 
arms. 

“Where are you running to, my beauty?” he asked, 
as she struggled to get away. 

“Oh, let me go I let me go!” she cried in agonised 
tones, twisting her slender wrists in his firm grip. The 
other man stood by, watching the scene. 

“Better let her go, Peppino,” he said. “Don’t you 
see she is a lady?” 

“A lady, eh?” echoed the other. “Where are you 
going to, with that angel’s face?” 

“To the Serristori barrack,” answered Faustina, still 
struggling with all her might. 

At this announcement both men laughed loudly and 
glanced quickly at each other. They seemed to think 
the answer a very good joke. 

“ If that is all, you may go, and the devil accompany 
you. What say you, Gaetano?” Then they laughed 
again. 

“ Take that chain and brooch as a ricordo — just for a 
souvenir,” said Gaetano, who then himself tore off the 
ornaments while the other held Faustina’s hands. 

“ You are a pretty girl indeed 1 ” he cried, looking at 
her pale face in the light of the filthy little red lamp 
that hung over the low door of the wine-shop. “ I never 
kissed a lady in my life.” 


60 


sant’ ilario. 


With that he grasped her delicate chin in his foul hand 
and bent down, bringing his grimy face close to hers. 
But this was too much. Though Faustina had hitherto 
fought with all her natural strength against the ruffians, 
there was a reserved force, almost superhuman, in her 
slight frame, which was suddenly roused by the threat- 
ened outrage. With a piercing shriek she sprang 
backwards and dashed herself free, sending the two 
blackguards reeling into the darkness. Then, like a 
flash she was gone. By chance she took the right turn- 
ing and in a moment more found herself in the Via di 
Tordinona, just opposite the entrance of the Apollo 
theatre. The torn white handbills on the wall, and the 
projecting shed over the doors told her where she was. 

By this time the soldiers who had intercepted Gou- 
ache’s passage across the bridge, as well as the dense 
crowd, had disappeared, and Faustina ran like the wind 
along the pavement it had taken the soldier so long to 
traverse. Like a flitting bird she sped over the broad 
space beyond and up the Borgo Nuovo, past the long low 
hospital, wherein the sick and dying lay in their silence, 
tended by the patient Sisters of Mercy, while all was in 
excitement without. The young girl ran past the corner. 
A Zouave was running before her towards the gate of the 
barrack where a sentinel stood motionless under the lamp, 
his gray hood drawn over his head and his rifle erect by 
his shoulder. 

At that instant a terrific explosion rent the air, fol- 
lowed a moment later by the dull crash of falling frag- 
ments of masonry, and then by a long thundering, 
rumbling sound, dreadful to hear, which lasted several 
minutes, as the ruins continued to fall in, heaps upon 
heaps, sending immense clouds of thick dust up into the 
night air. Then all was still. 

The little piazza before San Spirito in Sassia was half 
filled with masses of stone and brickwork and crumbling 
mortar. A young girl lay motionless upon her face at 
the corner of the hospital, ,her white hands stretched out 
towards the man who lay dead but a few feet before her, 
crushed under a great irregular mound of stones and 
rubbish. Beneath the central heap where the barracks 
had stood lay the bodies of the poor Zouaves, deep 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


61 


buried in wreck of the main building, the greater part of 
which had fallen across the side street that passes be- 
tween the Penitenzieri and the Serristori. All was still 
for many minutes, while the soft light streamed from 
the high windows of the hospital and faintly illuminated 
some portion of the hideous scene. 

Very slowly a few stragglers came in sight, then more, 
and then by degrees a great dark crowd of awestruck 
people were collected together and stood afar off, fearing 
to come near, lest the ruins should still continue falling. 
Presently the door of the hospital opened and a party of 
men in gray blouses, headed by three or four gentlemen 
in black coats — one indeed was in his shirt sleeves — 
emerged into the silent street and went straight towards 
the scene of the disaster. They carried lanterns and a 
couple of stretchers such as are used for bearing the 
wounded. It chanced that the straight line they fol- 
lowed from the door did not lead them to where the girl 
was lying, and it was not until after a long and nearly 
fruitless search that they turned back. Two soldiers 
only, and both dead, could they find to bring back. The 
rest were buried far beneath, and it would be the work 
of many hours to extricate the bodies, even with a large 
force of men. 

As the little procession turned sadly back, they found 
that the crowd had advanced cautiously forward and now 
filled the street. In the foremost rank a little circle 
stood about a dark object that lay on the ground, curious, 
but too timid to touch it. 

Signor Professore,” said one man in a low voice, 
“there is a dead woman.” 

The physicians came forward and bent over the body. 
One of them shook his head, as the bright light of the 
lantern fell on her face while he raised the girl from the 
ground. 

“ She is a lady,” said one of the others in a low voice. 

The men brought a stretcher and lifted the girPs body 
gently from the ground, scarcely daring to touch her, and 
gazing anxiously but yet in wonder at the white face. 

When she was laid upon the coarse canvas there was 
a moment’s pause. The crowd pressed closely about the 
hospital men, and the yellow light of the lanterns was 


62 


sant’ ilario. 


reflected on many strange faces, all bent eagerly forward 
and down to get a last sight of the dead girl’s features. 

“ Andiamo,” said one of the physicians in a quiet sad 
voice. The bearers took up the dead Zouaves again, the 
procession of death entered the gates of the hospital, 
and the heavy doors closed behind like the portals of a 
tomb. 

The crowd closed again and pressed forward to the 
ruins. A few gendarmes had come up, and very soon a 
party of labourers was at work clearing away the lighter 
rubbish under the lurid glare of pitch torches stuck into 
the crevices and cracks of the rent walls. The devilish 
deed was done, but by a providential accident its conse- 
quences had been less awful than might have been antic- 
ipated. Only one-third of the mine had actually 
exploded, and only thirty Zouaves were at the time 
within the building. 

“Did you see her face, Gaetano?” asked a rough fel- 
low of his companion. They stood together in a dark 
corner a little aloof from the throng of people. 

“No, but it must have been she. I am glad I have not 
that sin on my soul.” 

“You are a fool, Gaetano. What is a girl to a couple 
of hundred soldiers? Besides, if you had held her tight 
she would not have got here in time to be killed.” 

“ Eh — but a girl ! The other vagabonds at least, we 
have despatched in a good cause. Viva la liberta! ” 

“ Hush ! There are the gendarmes ! This way ! ” 

So they disappeared into the darkness whence they 
had come. 

It was not only in the Borgo Nuovo that there was 
confusion and consternation. The first signal for the 
outbreak had been given in the Piazza Colonna, where 
bombs had been exploded. Attacks were made upon the 
prisons by bands of those sinister-looking, unknown men, 
who for several days had been noticed in various parts 
of the city. A compact mob invaded the capitol, armed 
with better weapons than mobs generally find ready to 
their hands. At the Porta San Paolo, which was rightly 
judged to be one of the weakest points of the city, a 
furious attack was made from without by a band of Gari- 
baldians who had crept up near the walls in various dis- 


sant’ ilario. 


63 


guises during the last two days. More than one of the 
barracks within the city were assaulted simultaneously, 
and for a short time companies of men paraded the streets, 
shouting their cries of “ Viva Garibaldi, Viva la liberta! ” 
A few cried “ Viva Vittorio ! ’’ and Viva h Italia! But 
a calm observer — and there were many such in Borne 
that night — could easily see that the demonstration was 
rather in favour of an anarchic republic than of the 
Italian monarchy. On the whole, the population showed 
no sympathy with the insurrection. It is enough to say 
that this tiny revolution broke out at dusk and was en- 
tirely quelled before nine o’clock of the same evening. 
The attempts made were bold and desperate in many 
cases, but were supported by a small body of men only, 
the populace taking no active part in what was done. 
Had a real sympathy existed between the lower classes 
of Bomans and the Garibaldians the result could not have 
been doubtful, for the vigour and energy displayed by the 
rioters would inevitably have attracted any similarly 
disposed crowd to join in a fray, when the weight of a 
few hundreds more would have turned the scale at any 
point. There was not a French soldier in the city at the 
time, and of the Zouaves and native troops a very large 
part were employed upon the frontier. Borne was saved 
and restored to order by a handful of soldiers, who were 
obliged to act at many points simultaneously, and the 
insignificance of the original movement may be deter- 
mined from this fact. 

It is true that of the two infernal schemes, plotted at 
once to destroy the troops in a body and to strike terror 
into the inhabitants, one failed in part and the other 
altogether. If the whole of the gunpowder which Giu- 
seppe Monti and Gaetano Tognetti had placed in the 
mine under the Serristori barracks had exploded, instead 
of only one-third of the quantity, a considerable part of 
the Borgo Huovo would have been destroyed; and even 
the disaster which actually occurred would have killed 
many hundreds of Zouaves if these had chanced to be 
indoors at the time. But it is impossible to calculate 
the damage and loss of life which would have been 
recorded had the castle of Sant’ Angelo and the adjacent 
fortifications been blown into the air. A huge mine had 


64 


sant’ ilario. 


been laid and arranged for firing in the vaults of one of 
tlie bastions, but the plot was betrayed at the very last 
moment by one of the conspirators. I may add that 
these men, who were tried, and condemned only to penal 
servitude, were liberated in 1870, three years later, by 
the Italian Government, on the ground that they were 
merely political prisoners. The attempt in which they 
had been engaged would, however, even in time of de- 
clared war, have been regarded as a crime against the 
law of nations. 

Eome was immediately declared under a state of siege, 
and patrols of troops began to parade the streets, send- 
ing all stragglers whom they met to their homes, on the 
admirable principle that it is the duty of every man who 
finds himself in a riotous crowd to leave it instantly 
unless he can do something towards restoring order. 
Persons who found themselves in other people’s houses, 
however, had some difficulty in at once returning to their 
own, and as it has been seen that the disturbance began 
precisely at the time selected by society for holding its 
confabulations, there were many who found themselves 
in that awkward situation. 

As the sounds in the street subsided, the excitement 
in the drawing-room at the Palazzo Saracinesca dimin- 
ished likewise. Several of those present announced 
their intention of departing at once, but to this the old 
prince made serious objections. The city was not safe, 
he said. Carriages might be stopped at any moment, 
and even if that did not occur, all sorts of accidents 
might arise from the horses shying at the noises, or run- 
ning over people in the crowds. He had his own views, 
and as he was in his own house it was not easy to dispute 
them. 

^‘The gates are shut,” he said, with a cheerful laugh, 
and none of you can get out at present. As it is nearly 
dinner-time you must all dine with me. It will not be 
a banquet, but I can give you something to eat. I hope 
nobody is gone already.” 

Every one, at these words, looked at everybody else, 
as though to see whether any one were missing. 

“ I saw Monsieur Gouache go out,” said Elavia Monte- 
varchi. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


65 


‘‘ Poor fellow ! ” exclaimed the princess, her mother. 
“ I hope nothing will happen to him ! ’’ She paused a 
moment and looked anxiously round the room. ‘‘Good 
Heavens ! ” she cried suddenly, “ where is Faustina? ” 

“ She must have gone out of the room with my wife,” 
said Sant’ Ilario, quietly. “I will go and see.” 

The princess thought this explanation perfectly natural 
and waited till he should return. He did not come back, 
however, so soon as might have been expected. He found 
his wife just leaving the nursery. Her first impulse had 
been to go to the child, and having satisfied herself that 
he had not been carried off by a band of Garibaldians but 
was sound asleep in his cradle, she was about to rejoin 
her guests. 

“ Where is Faustina Montevarchi? ” asked Giovanni, 
as though it were the most natural question in the 
world. 

“Faustina?” repeated Corona. “In the drawing- 
room, to be sure. I have not seen her.” 

“ She is not there,” said Sant’ Ilario, in a more anxious 
tone. “I thought she had come here with you.” 

“ She must be with the rest. You have overlooked her 
in the crowd. Come back with me and see your son — 
he does not seem to mind revolution in the least! ” 

Giovanni, who had no real doubt but that Faustina 
was in the house, entered the nursery with his wife, and 
they stood together by the child’s cradle. 

“Is he not beautiful?” exclaimed Corona, passing her 
arm affectionately through her husband’s, and leaning 
her cheek on his shoulder. 

“He is a fine baby,” replied Giovanni, his voice ex- 
pressing more satisfaction than his words. “He will 
look like my father when he grows up.” 

“ I would rather he should look like you, ” said Corona. 

“ If he could look like you, dear, there would be some 
use in wishing.” 

Then they both gazed for some seconds at the swarthy 
little boy, who lay on his pillows, his arms thrown back 
above his head and his two little fists tightly clenched. 
The rich blood softly coloured the child’s dark cheeks, 
and the black lashes, already long, like his mother’s, 
gave a singularly expressive look to the small face. 

F 


66 


sant’ ilario. 


Giovanni tenderly kissed his wife and then they softly 
left the room. As soon as they were outside Sant’ Ila- 
rio’s thoughts returned to Faustina. 

‘‘ She was certainly not in the drawing-room, ” he said, 
I am quite sure. It was her mother who asked for her 
and everybody heard the question. I dare not go back 
without her.” 

They stopped together in the corridor, looking at each 
other with grave faces. 

This is very serious, ” said Corona. We must search 
the house. Send the men. I will tell the women. We 
will meet at the head of the stairs.” 

Five minutes later, Giovanni returned in pursuit of his 
wife. 

“ She has left the house,” he said, breathlessly. “The 
porter saw her go out.” 

“ Good Heavens ! Why did he not stop her?” cried 
Corona. 

“ Because he is a fool ! ” answered Sant’ Ilario, very 
pale in his anxiety. “ She must have lost her head and 
gone home. I will tell her mother.” 

When it was known in the drawing-room that Donna 
Faustina Montevarchi had left the palace alone and on 
foot every one was horrorstruck. The princess turned 
as white as death, though she was usually very red in 
the face. She was a brave woman, however, and did not 
waste words. 

“I must go home at once,” said she. “Please order 
my carriage and have the gates opened.” 

Giovanni obeyed silently, and a few minutes later the 
princess was descending the stairs, accompanied by 
Flavia, who was silent, a phenomenon seldom to be 
recorded in connection with that vivacious young lady. 
Giovanni went also, and his cousin, San Giacinto. 

“ If you will permit me, princess, I will go with you, ” 
said the latter as they all reached the carriage. “ I may 
be of some use.” 

J ust as they rolled out of the deep archway, the explo- 
sion of the barracks rent the air, the tremendous crash 
thundering and echoing through the city. The panes of 
the carriage-windows rattled as though they would break, 
and all Borne was silent while one might count a score. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


67 


Then the horses plunged wildly in the traces and the 
vehicle struck heavily against one of the stone pillars 
which stood before the entrance of the palace. The four 
persons inside could hear the coachman shouting. 

“ Drive on ! ’’ cried San Giacinto, thrusting his head 
out of the window. 

“ Eccellenza ” began the man in a tone of expos- 

tulation. 

“ Drive on ! ” shouted San Giacinto, in a voice that 
made the fellow obey in spite of his terror. He had 
never heard such a voice before, so deep, so strong and 
so savage. 

They reached the Palazzo Montevarchi without en- 
countering any serious obstacle. In a few minutes they 
were convinced that Donna Faustina had not been heard 
of there, and a council was held upon the stairs. Whilst 
they were deliberating. Prince Montevarchi came out, and 
with him his eldest son, Bellegra, a handsome man about 
thirty years old, with blue eyes and a perfectly smooth 
fair beard. He was more calm than his father, who 
spoke excitedly, with many gesticulations. 

You have lost Faustina! ” cried the old man in wild 
tones. “You have lost Faustina! And in such times as 
these! Why do you stand there? Oh, my daughter! my 
daughter ! I have so often told you to be careful, Guen- 
dalina — move, in the name of God — the child is lost, 
lost, I tell you! Have you no heart? no feeling? Are 
you a mother? Signori miei, I am desperate! 

And indeed he seemed to be, as he stood wringing his 
hands, stamping his feet, and vociferating incoherently, 
while the tears began to flow down his cheeks. 

“We are going in search of your daughter,’’ said Sant’ 
Ilario. “Pray calm yourself. She will certainly be 
found.” 

“ Perhaps I had better go too,” suggested Ascanio Bel- 
legra, rather timidly. But his father threw his arms 
round him and held him tightly. 

“Do you think I will lose another child?” he cried. 
“ Ho, no, no — figlio mio — you shall never go out into the 
midst of a revolution.” 

Sant’ Ilario looked on gravely, though he inwardly 
despised the poor old man for his weakness. San Gia- 


68 


sant’ ilario. 


cinto stood against the wall, waiting, with a grim smile 
of amusement on his face. He was measuring Ascanio 
Bellegra with his eye and thought he would not care for 
his assistance. The princess looked scornfully at her 
husband and son. 

“We are losing time,” said Sant’ Ilario at last to his 
cousin. “I promise you to bring you your daughter,” 
he added gravely, turning to the princess. Then the 
two went away together, leaving Prince Montevarchi 
still lamenting himself to his wife and son. Flavia had 
taken no part in the conversation, having entered the 
hall and gone to her room at once. 

The cousins left the palace together and walked a 
little way down the street, before either spoke. Then 
Sant’ Ilario stopped short. 

“ Does it strike you that we have undertaken rather a 
difficult mission? ” he asked. 

“A very difficult one,” answered San Giacinto. 

“ Kome is not the largest city in the world, but I have 
not the slightest idea where to look for that child. She 
certainly left our house. She certainly has not returned 
to her own. Between the two, practically, there lies the 
whole of Borne. I think the best thing to do, will be to 
go to the police, if any of them can be found.” 

“Or to the Zouaves,” said San Giacinto. 

“Why to the Zouaves? I do not understand you.” 

“You are all so accustomed to being princes that you 
do not watch each other. I have done nothing but watch 
you all the time. That young lady is in love with Mon- 
sieur Gouache.” 

“ Eeally ! ” exclaimed Sant’ Ilario, to whom the idea 
was as novel and incredible as it could have been to old 
Montevarchi himself, “really, you must be mistaken. 
The thing is impossible.” 

“Not at all. That young man took Donna Faustina’s 
hand and held it for some time there by the piano while 
I was shutting the windows in your drawing-room.” 
San Giacinto did not tell all he had seen. 

“What?” cried Sant’ Ilario. “You are mad — it is 
impossible ! ” 

“ On the contrary, I saw it. A moment later Gouache 
left the room. Donna Faustina must have gone just 
after him. It is my opinion that she followed him.” 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


69 


Before Sant’ Ilario could answer, a small patrol of 
foot-gendarmes came up, and peremptorily ordered the 
two gentlemen to go home. Sant’ Ilario addressed the 
corporal in charge. He stated his name and that of his 
cousin. 

‘‘ A lady has been lost,” he then said. “ She is Donna 
Faustina Monte varchi — a young lady, very fair and 
beautiful. She left the Palazzo Saracinesca alone and 
on foot half an hour ago and has not been heard of. Be 
good enough to inform the police you meet of this fact 
and to say that a large reward will be paid to any one 
who brings her to her father’s house — to this palace 
here.” 

After a few more words the patrol passed on, leaving 
the two cousins to their own devices. Sant’ ilario was 
utterly annoyed at the view just presented to him, and 
could not believe the thing true, though he had no other 
explanation to offer. 

“It is of no use to stand here doing nothing,” said 
San Giacinto rather impatiently. “There is another 
crowd coming, too, and we shall be delayed again. I 
think we had better separate. I will go one way, and 
you take the other.” 

“Where will you go?” asked Sant’ Ilario. “You do 
not know your way about ” 

“ As she may be anywhere, we may find her anywhere, 
so that it is of no importance whether I know the names 
of the streets or not. You had best think of all the 
houses to which she might have gone, among her friends. 
You know them better than I do. I will beat up all the 
streets between here and your house. When I am tired 
I will go to your palace.” 

“I am afraid you will not find her,” replied Sant’ 
Ilario. “But we must try for the sake of her poor 
mother.” 

“It is a question of luck,” said the other, and they 
separated at once. 

San Giacinto turned in the direction of the crowd 
which was pouring into the street at some distance 
farther on. As he approached, he heard the name 
“ Serristori ” spoken frequently in the hum of voices. 

“ What about the Serristori?” he asked of the first he 
met. 


70 


SANT’ ILAKIO. 


•‘Have you not heard?’’ cried the fellow. ^^It is 
blown up with gunpowder ! There are at least a thou- 
sand dead. Half the Borgo Nuovo is destroyed, and 
they say that the Vatican will go next ” 

The man would have run on for any length of time, 
but San Giacinto had heard enough and dived into the 
first byway he found, intending to escape the throng and 
make straight for the barracks. He had to ask his way 
several times, and it was fully a quarter of an hour 
before he reached the bridge. Thence he easily found 
the scene of the disaster, and came up to the hospital of 
Santo Spirito just after the gates had closed behind the 
bearers of the dead. He mixed with the crowd and asked 
questions, learning very soon that the first search, made 
by the people from the hospital, had only brought to 
light the bodies of two Zouaves and one woman. 

“And I did not see her,” said the man who was speak- 
ing, “but they say she was a lady and beautiful as an 
angel.” 

“Rubbish!” exclaimed another. “She was a little 
sewing woman who lived in the Borgo Vecchio. And I 
know it is true because her innamorato was one of the 
dead Zouaves they picked up.” 

“I don’t believe there was any woman at all,” said a 
third. “What should a woman be doing at the bar- 
racks?” 

“She was killed outside,” observed the first speaker, 
a timid old man. “At least, I was told so, but"! did 
not see her.” 

“It was a woman bringing a baby to put into the 
cried a shrill-voiced washerwoman. “She got 
the child in and was running away, when the place blew 
up, and the devil carried her off. And serve her right, 
for throwing away her baby, poor little thing ! ” 

In the light of these various opinions, most of which 
supported the story that some woman had been carried 
into the hospital, San Giacinto determined to find out 
the truth, and boldly rang the bell. A panel was opened 

1 The Rota was a revolving box in which foundlings were formerly- 
placed. The box turned round and the infant was taken inside and 
cared for. It stands at the gate of the Santo Spirito Hospital, and is 
still visible, though no longer in use. 


SANT’ ILAEIO. 71 

in the door, and the porter looked out at the surging 
crowd. 

‘‘What do yon want?” he inquired roughly, on seeing 
that admittance had not been asked for a sick or wounded 
person. 

“ I want to speak with the surgeon in charge, ” replied 
San Giacinto. 

“ He is busy, ” said the man rather doubtfully. “ Who 
are you? ” 

“A friend of one of the persons just killed.” 

“They are dead. You had better wait till morning 
and come again,” suggested the porter. 

“ But I want to be sure that it is my friend who is 
dead.” 

“ Then why do you not give your name? Perhaps you 
are a Garibaldian. Why should I open? ” 

“ I will tell the surgeon my name, if you will call him. 
There is something for yourself. Tell him I am a Eoman 
prince and must see him for a moment.” 

“I will see if he will come,” said the man, shutting 
the panel in San Giacinto’s face. His footsteps echoed 
along the pavement of the wide hall within. It was long 
before he came back, and San Giacinto had leisure to 
reflect upon the situation. 

He had very little doubt but that the dead woman was no 
other than Donna Faustina. By a rare chance, or rather 
in obedience to an irresistible instinct, he had found the 
object of his search in half an hour, while his cousin 
was fruitlessly inquiring for the missing girl in the 
opposite direction. He had been led to the conclusion 
that she had followed Gouache by what he had seen in 
the Saracinesca’s drawing-room, and by a process of 
reasoning too simple to suggest itself to an ordinary 
member of Roman society. What disturbed him most 
was the thought of the consequences of his discovery, 
and he resolved to conceal the girl’s name and his own 
if possible. If she were indeed dead, it would be wiser 
to convey her body to her father’s house privately; if 
she were still alive, secrecy was doubly necessary. In 
either case it would be utterly impossible to account to 
the world for the fact that Faustina Monte varchi had 
been alone in the Borgo Nuovo at such an hour; and San 


72 


sant’ ilaeio. 


Giacinto had a lively interest in preserving the good 
reputation of Casa Montevarchi, since he had been medi- 
tating for some time past a union with Donna Flavia. 

At last the panel opened again, and when the porter 
had satisfied himself that the gentleman was still with- 
out, a little door in the heavy gate was cautiously 
unfastened and San Giacinto went in, bending nearly 
double to pass under the low entrance. In the great 
vestibule he was immediately confronted by the surgeon 
in charge, who was in his shirt sleeves, but had thrown 
his coat over his shoulders and held it together at the 
neck to protect himself from the night air. San Giacinto 
begged him to retire out of hearing of the porter, and 
the two walked away together. 

“ There was a lady killed just now by the explosion, 
was there not?’’ inquired San Giacinto. 

‘‘She is not dead,” replied the surgeon. “Do you 
know her?” 

“I think so. Had she anything about her to prove 
her identity?” 

“ The letter M embroidered on her handkerchief. 
That is all I know. She has not been here a quarter of 
an hour. I thought she was dead myself, when we took 
her up.” 

“ She was not under the ruins? ” 

“No. She was struck by some small stone, I fancy. 
The two Zouaves were half buried, and are quite dead.” 

“May I see them? I know many in the corps. They 
might be acquaintances.” 

“ Certainly. They are close by in the mortuary cham- 
ber, unless they have been put in the chapel.” 

The two men entered the grim place, which was dimly 
lighted by a lantern hanging overhead. It is unnecessary 
to dwell upon the ghastly details. San Giacinto bent 
down curiously and looked at the dead men’s faces. He 
knew neither of them, and told the surgeon so. 

“Will you allow me to see the lady?” he asked. 

“Pardon me, if I ask a question,” said the surgeon, 
who was a man of middle age, with a red beard and keen 
grey eyes. “ To whom have I the advantage of speak- 
ing? ” 

“Signor Professore,” replied San Giacinto, “I must 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


73 


tell you tliat if this is the lady I suppose your patient 
to be, the honour of one of the greatest families in Rome 
is concerned, and it is important that strict secrecy 
should be preserved.” 

“The porter told me that you were a Roman prince,” 
returned the surgeon rather bluntly. “But you speak 
like a southerner.” 

“I was brought up in Naples. As I was saying, 
secrecy is very important, and I can assure you that you 
will earn the gratitude of many by assisting me.” 

“ Do you wish to take this lady away at once?” 

“Heaven forbid! Her mother and sister shall come 
for her in half an hour.” 

The surgeon thrust his hands into his pockets, and 
stood staring for a moment or two at the bodies of the 
Zouaves. 

“I cannot do it,” he said, suddenly looking up at San 
Giacinto. “I am master here, and I am responsible. 
The secret is professional, of course. If I knew you, 
even by sight, I should not hesitate. As it is, I must 
ask your name.” 

San Giacinto did not hesitate long, as the surgeon was 
evidently master of the situation. He took a card from 
his case and silently handed it to the doctor. The latter 
took it and read the name, “ Don Giovanni Saracinesca, 
Marchese di San Giacinto.” His face betrayed no emo- 
tion, but the belief flashed through his mind that there 
was no such person in existence. He was one of the 
leading men in his profession, and knew Prince Saracin- 
esca and Sant’ Ilario, but he had never heard of this 
other Don Giovanni. He knew also that the city was in 
a state of revolution and that many suspicious persons 
were likely to gain access to public buildings on false 
pretences. 

“Very well,” he said quietly. “You are not afraid of 
dead men, I see. Be good enough to wait a moment 
here — no one will see you, and you will not be recog- 
nised. I will go and see that there is nobody in the 
way, and you shall have a sight of the young lady.” 

His companion nodded in assent and the surgeon went 
out through the narrow door. San . Giacinto was sur- 
prised to hear the heavy key turned in the lock and 


74 


sant’ ilario. 


withdrawn, but immediately accounted for the fact on 
the theory that the surgeon wished to prevent any one 
from finding his visitor lest the secret should be divulged. 
He was not a nervous man, and had no especial horror of 
being left alone in a mortuary chamber for a few min- 
utes. He looked about him, and saw that the room was 
high and vaulted. One window alone gave air, and this 
was ten feet from the floor and heavily ironed. He 
reflected with a smile that if it pleased the surgeon to 
leave him there he could not possibly get out. Neither 
his size nor his phenomenal strength could assist him in 
the least. There was no furniture in the place^ Half 
a dozen slabs of slate for the bodies were built against 
the wall, solid and immovable, and the door was of the 
heaviest oak, thickly studded with huge iron nails. If 
the dead men had been living prisoners their place of 
confinement could not have been more strongly contrived. 

San Giacinto waited a quarter of an hour, and at last, 
as the surgeon did not return, he sat down upon one of 
the marble slabs and, being very hungry, consoled him- 
self by lighting a cigar, while he meditated upon the 
surest means of conveying Donna Faustina to her father’s 
house. At last he began to wonder how long he was to 
wait. 

“1 should not wonder,” he said to himself, ‘Hf that 
long-eared professor had taken me for a revolutionist. ” 

He was not far wrong, indeed. The surgeon had 
despatched a messenger for a couple of gendarmes and 
had gone about his business in the hospital, knowing 
very well that it would take some time to find the police 
while the riot lasted, and congratulating himself upon 
having caught a prisoner who, if not a revolutionist, was 
at all events an impostor, since he had a card printed 
with a false name. 


CHAPTER VI. 

The improvised banquet at the Palazzo Saracinesca 
was not a merry one, but the probable dangers to the 
city and the disappearance of Faustina Montevarchi 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


75 


furnished matter for plenty of conversation. The major- 
ity inclined to the belief that the girl had lost her head 
and had run home, but as neither Sant’ Ilario nor his 
cousin returned, there was much speculation. The prince 
said he believed that they had found Faustina at her 
father’s house and had stayed to dinner, whereupon some 
malicious person remarked that it needed a revolution in 
Rome to produce hospitality in such a quarter. 

Dinner was nearly ended when Pasquale, the butler, 
whispered to the prince that a gendarme wanted to speak 
with him on very important business. 

“Bring him here,” answered old Saracinesca, aloud. 
“There is a gendarme outside,” he added, addressing his 
guests, “he will tell us all the news. Shall we have 
him here? ” 

Every one assented enthusiastically to the proposition, 
for most of those present were anxious about their 
houses, not knowing what had taken place during the 
last two hours. The man was ushered in, and stood at a 
distance holding his three-cornered hat in his hand, and 
looking rather sheepish and uncomfortable. 

“Well?” asked the prince. “What is the matter? 
We all wish to hear the news.” 

“Excellency,” began the soldier, “I must ask many 

pardons for appearing thus ” Indeed his uniform 

was more or less disarranged and he looked pale and 
fatigued. 

“Never mind your appearance. Speak up,” answered 
old Saracinesca in encouraging tones. 

“Excellency,” said the man, “I must apologise, but 
there is a gentleman who calls himself Don Giovanni, of 
your revered name ” 

“ I know there is. He is my son. What about him? ” 

“ He is not the Senior Principe di Sant’ Ilario, Excel- 
lency — he calls himself by another name — Marchese 
di — di — here is his card. Excellency.” 

“ My cousin, San Giacinto, then. What about him, I 
say?” 

“Your Excellency has a cousin ” stammered the 

gendarme. 

“Well? Is it against the law to have cousins? ” cried 
the prince. “ What is the matter with my cousin? ” 


76 


sant’ ilario. 


Dio mio ! ” exclaimed the soldier in great agitation. 
“ What a combination ! Your Excellency’s cousin is in 
the mortuary chamber at Santo Spirito ! ” 

“Is he dead?” asked Saracinesca in a lower voice, 
but starting from his chair. 

“No,” cried the man, questo d il male! That is -the 
trouble ! He is alive and very well ! ” 

“Then what the devil is he doing in the mortuary 
chamber?” roared the prince. 

“ Excellency, I beseech your pardon, I had nothing to 
do with locking up the Signor Marchese. It was the 
surgeon. Excellency, who took him for a Garibaldian. 
He shall be liberated at once ” 

“ I should think so ! ” answered Saracinesca, savagely. 
“ And what business have your asses of surgeons with 
gentlemen? My hat, Fasquale. And how on earth came 
my cousin to be in Santo Spirito?” 

“Excellency, I know nothing, but I had to do my 
duty.” 

“ And if you know nothing how the devil do you ex- 
pect to do your duty ! I will have you and the surgeon 
and the whole of Santo Spirito and all the patients, in 
the Carceri Nuove, safe in prison before morning ! My 
hat, Pasquale, I say ! ” 

Some confusion followed, during which the gendarme, 
who was anxious to escape all responsibility in the mat- 
ter of San Giacinto’s confinement, left the room and 
descended the grand staircase three steps at a time. 
Mounting his horse he galloped back through the now 
deserted streets to the hospital. 

Within two minutes after his arrival San Giacinto 
heard the bolt of the heavy lock run back in the socket 
and the surgeon entered the mortuary chamber. San 
Giacinto had nearly finished his cigar and was growing 
impatient, but the doctor made many apologies for his 
long absence. 

“An unexpected relapse in a dangerous case. Signor 
Marchese,” he said in explanation. “What would you 
have? We doctors are at the mercy of nature! Pray 
forgive my neglect, but I could send no one, as you did 
not wish to be seen. I locked the door, so that nobody 
might find you here. Pray come with me, and you shall 
see the young lady at once.” 


sant’ ilario. 77 

“By all means,” replied San Giacinto. “Dead men 
are poor company, and I am in a hurry.” 

The surgeon led the way to the accident ward and in- 
troduced his companion to a small clean room in which 
a shaded lamp was burning. A Sister of Mercy stood by 
the white bed, upon which lay a young girl, stretched 
out at her full length. 

“You are too late,” said the nun very quietly. “She 
is dead, poor child.” 

San Giacinto uttered a deep exclamation of horror 
and was at the bedside even before the surgeon. He 
lifted the fair young creature in his arms and stared at 
the cold face, holding it to the light. Then with a loud 
cry of astonishment he laid down his burden. 

“It is not she. Signor Professore,” he said. “I must 
apologise for the trouble I have given you. Pray accept 
my best thanks. There is a resemblance, but it is not 
she.” 

The doctor was somewhat relieved to find himself freed 
from the responsibility which, as San Giacinto had told 
him, involved the honour of one of the greatest families 
in Borne. Before speaking, he satisfied himself that the 
young woman was really dead. 

“Death often makes faces look alike which have no 
resemblance to each other in life,” he remarked as he 
turned away. Then they both left the room, followed 
at a little distance by the sister who was going to sum- 
mon the bearers to carry away her late charge. 

As the two men descended the steps, the sound of loud 
voices in altercation reached their ears, and as they 
emerged into the vestibule, they saw old Prince Saraciii- 
esca flourishing his stick in dangerous proximity to 
the head of the porter. The latter had retreated until 
he stood with his back against the wall. 

“I will have none of this lying,” shouted the irate 
nobleman. “ The Marchese is here — the gendarme told 
me he was in the mortuary chamber — if he is not pro- 
duced at once I will break your rascally neck ” The 

man was protesting as fast and as loud as his assailant 
threatened him. 

“ Eh ! My good cousin ! ” cried San Giacinto, whose 
unmistakable voice at once made the prince desist from 


78 


sant’ ilario. 


his attack and turn round. “ Do not kill the fellow ! I 
am alive and well, as you see.’’ 

A short explanation ensued, during which the surgeon 
was obliged to admit that as San Giacinto had no means 
of proving any identity he, the doctor in charge, had 
thought it best to send for the police, in view of the 
unquiet state of the city. 

“But what brought you here?” asked old Saracin- 
esca, who was puzzled to account for his cousin’s pres- 
ence in the hospital. 

San Giacinto had satisfied his curiosity and did not 
care a pin for the annoyance to which he had been sub- 
jected. He was anxious, too, to get away, and having 
half guessed the surgeon’s suspicions was not at all sur- 
prised by the revelation concerning the gendarme. 

“Allow me to thank you again,” he said politely, 
turning to the doctor. “ I have no doubt you acted quite 
rightly. Let us go,” he added, addressing the prince. 

The porter received a coin as consolation money for 
the abuse he had sustained, and the two cousins found 
themselves in the street. Saracinesca again asked for 
an explanation. 

“Very simple,” replied San Giacinto. “Donna Faus- 
tina was not at her father’s house, so your son and I 
separated to continue our search. Chancing to find my- 
self here — for I do not know my way about the city — I 
learnt the news of the explosion, and was told that two 
Zouaves had been found dead and had been taken into 
the hospital. Fearing lest one of them might have been 
Gouache, I succeeded in getting in, when I was locked 
up with the dead bodies, as you have heard. Gouache, 
by the bye, was not one of them.” 

“It is outrageous ” began Saracinesca, but his 

companion did not allow him to proceed. 

“It is no matter,” he said, quickly. “The important 
thing is to find Donna Faustina. I suppose you have no 
news of her.” 

“None. Giovanni had not come home when the gen- 
darme appeared.” 

“Then we must continue the search as best we can,” 
said San Giacinto. Thereupon they both got into the 
prince’s cab and drove away. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


79 


It was nearly midnight when a small detachment of 
Zouaves crossed the bridge of Sant’ Angelo. There had 
been some sharp fighting at the Porta San Paolo, at the 
other extremity of Rome, and the men were weary. But 
rest was not to be expected that night, and the tired sol- 
diers were led back to do sentry duty in the neighbour- 
hood of their quarters. The officer halted the little body 
in the broad space beyond. 

“Monsieur Gouache,” said the lieutenant, “you will 
take a corporal’s guard and maintain order in the neigh- 
bourhood of the barracks — if there is anything left of 
them,” he added with a mournful laugh. 

Gouache stepped forward and half a dozen men formed 
themselves behind him. The officer was a good friend 
of his. 

“ I suppose you have not dined any more than I, Mon- 
sieur Gouache?” 

“Not I, mon lieutenant. It is no matter.” 

“ Pick up something to eat if you can, at such an hour. 
I will see that you are relieved before morning. Shoul- 
der arms ! March ! ” 

So Anastase Gouache trudged away down the Borgo 
Nuovo with his men at his heels. Among the number 
there was the son of a French duke, an English gentle- 
man whose forefathers had marched with the Conqueror 
as their descendant now marched behind the Parisian 
artist, a young Swiss doctor of law, a couple of red- 
headed Irish peasants, and two or three others. When 
they reached the scene of the late catastrophe the place 
was deserted. The men who had been set to work at 
clearing away the rubbish had soon found what a hope- 
less task they had undertaken; and the news having 
soon spread that only the regimental musicians were in 
the barracks at the time, and that these few had been in 
all probability in the lower story of the building, where 
the band-room was situated, all attempts at finding the 
bodies were abandoned until the next day. 

Gouache and many others had escaped death almost 
miraculously, for five minutes had not elapsed after they 
had started at the double-quick for the Porta San Paolo, 
when the building was blown up. The news had of 
course been brought to them while they were repulsing 


80 


sant’ ilarto. 


the attack upon the gate, but it was not until many hours 
afterwards that a small detachment could safely be 
spared to return to their devastated quarters. Gouache 
himself had been just in time to join his comrades, and 
with them had seen most of the fighting. He now placed 
his men at proper distances along the street, and found 
leisure to reflect upon what had occurred. He was hun- 
gry and thirsty, and grimy with gunpowder, but there 
was evidently no prospect of getting any refreshment. 
The night, too, was growing cold, and he found it nec- 
essary to walk briskly about to keep himself warm. At 
first he tramped backwards and forwards, some fifty paces 
each way, but growing weary of the monotonous exercise, 
he began to scramble about among the heaps of ruins. 
His quick imagination called up the scene as it must 
have looked at the moment of the explosion, and then 
reverted with a sharp pang to the thought of his poor 
comrades-in-arms who lay crushed to death many feet 
below the stones on which he trod. 

Suddenly, as he leaned against a huge block, absorbed 
in his thoughts, the low wailing of a woman’s voice 
reached his ears. The sound proceeded apparently from 
no great distance, but the tone was very soft and low. 
Gradually, as he listened, he thought he distinguished 
words, but such words as he had not expected to hear, 
though they expressed his own feeling well enough. 

“ Requiem eternam dona eis I ” 

It was quite distinct, and the accents sounded strangely 
familiar. He held his breath and strained every faculty 
to catch the sounds. 

Requiem sempiternam — sempiternam — sempiter- 
nam !” The despairing tones trembled at the third 
repetition, and then the voice broke into passionate sob- 
bing. 

Anastase did not wait for more. At first he had half 
believed that what he heard was due to his imagination, 
but the sudden weeping left no doubt that it was real. 
Cautiously he made his way amongst the ruins, until he 
stopped short in amazement not unmingled with horror. 

In an angle where a part of the walls was still stand- 
ing, a woman was on her knees, her hands stretched 
wildly out before her, her darkly- clad figure faintly re- 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


81 


vealed by the beams of the waning moon. The covering 
had fallen back from her head upon her shoulders, and 
the struggling rays fell upon her beautiful features, 
marking their angelic outline with delicate light. Still 
Anastase remained motionless, scarcely believing his 
eyes, and yet knowing that lovely face too well not to 
believe. It was Donna Faustina Montevarchi who knelt 
there at midnight, alone, repeating the solemn words 
from the mass for the dead; it was for him that she wept, 
and he knew it. 

Standing there upon the common grave of his com- 
rades, a wild joy filled the young man’s heart, a joy such 
as must be felt to be known, for it passes the power of 
earthly words to tell it. In that dim and ghastly place 
the sun seemed suddenly to shine as at noonday in a fair 
country; the crumbling masonry and blocks of broken 
stone grew more lovely than the loveliest flowers, and 
from the dark figure of that lonely heart-broken woman 
the man who loved her saw a radiance proceeding which 
overflowed and made bright at once his eyes and his heart. 
In the intensity of his emotion, the hand which lay upon 
the fallen stone contracted suddenly and broke ofi a 
fragment of the loosened mortar. 

At the slight noise, Faustina turned her head. Her 
eyes were wide and wild, and as she started to her feet 
she uttered a short, sharp cry, and staggered backward 
against the wall. In a moment Anastase was at her side, 
supporting her and looking into her face. 

“ Faustina! ” 

During a few seconds she gazed horrorstruck and si- 
lent upon him, stiffening herself and holding her face 
away from his. It was as though his ghost had risen out 
of the earth and embraced her. Then the wild look 
shivered like a mask and vanished, her features softened 
and the colour rose to her cheeks for an instant. Very 
slowly she drew him towards her, her eyes fixed on his ; 
their lips met in a long, sweet kiss — then her strength 
forsook her and she swooned away in his arms. 

Gouache supported her tenderly until she sat leaning 
against the wail, and then knelt down by her side. He 
did not know what to do, and had he known, it would 
have availed him little. His instinct told him that she 

G 


82 


sant’ ilario. 


would presently recover consciousness and liis emotions 
had so wholly overcome him that he could only look at 
her lovely face as her head rested upon his arm. But 
while he waited a great fear began to steal into his heart. 
He asked himself how Faustina had come to such a place, 
and how her coming was to be accounted for. It was long 
past midnight, now, and he guessed what trouble and 
anxiety there would be in her father’s house until she 
was found. He represented to himself in quick succes’ 
sion the scenes which would follow his appearance at the 
Palazzo Montevarchi with the youngest daughter of the 
family in his arms — or in a cab, and he confessed to 
himself that never lover had been in such straits. 

Faustina opened her eyes and sighed, nestled her head 
softly on his . breast, sighing again, in the happy con- 
sciousness that he was safe, and then at last she sat up 
and looked him in the face. 

‘‘I was so sure you were killed,” said she, in her soft 
voice. 

“My darling! ” he exclaimed, pressing her to his side. 

“Are you not glad to be alive?” she asked. “For my 
sake, at least! You do not know what I have suffered.” 

Again he held her close to him, in silence, forgetting 
all the unheard-of difficulties of his situation in the hap- 
piness of holding her in his arms. His silence, indeed, 
was more eloquent than any words could have been. 

“ My beloved ! ” he said at last, “ how could you run 
such risks for me? Do you think I am worthy of so much 
love? And yet, if loving you can make me worthy of 
you, I am the most deserving man that ever lived — and 
I live only for you. But for you I might as well be 
buried under our feet here with my poor comrades. But 
tell me, Faustina, were you not afraid to come? How 
long have you been here? It is very late — it is almost 
morning.” 

“Is it? What does it matter, since you are safe? You 
ask how I came? Did I not tell you I would follow you? 
Why did you run on without me? I ran here very 
quickly, and just as I saw the gates of the barracks there 
was a terrible noise and I was thrown down, I cannot 
tell how. Soon I got to my feet and crept under a door- 
way. I suppose I must have fainted, for I thought you 


sant’ ilario. 


83 


were killed. I saw a soldier before me, just when it 
happened, and he must have been struck. I took him 
for you. When I came to myself there were so many 
people in the street that I could not move from where I 
was. Then they went away, and I came here while the 
workmen tried to move the stones, and I watched them 
and begged them to go on, but they would not, and I had 
nothing to give them, so they went away too, and I knew 
that I should have to wait until to-morrow to find you — 
for I would have waited — no one should have dragged 
me away — ah ! my darling — my beloved ! What does 
anything matter now that you are safe ! ” 

For fully half an hour they sat talking in this wise, 
both knowing that the situation could not last, but nei- 
ther willing to speak the word which must end it. Gou- 
ache, indeed, was in a twofold difficulty. Not only was 
he wholly at a loss for a means of introducing Faustina 
into her father’s house unobserved at such an hour; he 
was in command of the men stationed in the neighbour- 
hood, and to leave his post under any circumstances 
whatever would be a very grave breach of duty. He 
could neither allow Faustina to return alone, nor could 
he accompany her. He could not send one of his men 
for a friend to help him, since to take any one into his 
confidence was to ruin the girl’s reputation in the eyes 
of all Kome. To find a cab at that time of night was 
almost out of the question. The position seemed des- 
perate. Faustina, too, was a mere child, and it was 
impossible to explain to her the social consequences of 
her being discovered with him. 

“ I think, perhaps, ” said she after a happy silence, and 
in rather a timid voice — ‘‘1 think, perhaps, you had 
better take me home now. They will be anxious, you 
know,” she added, as though fearing that he should sus- 
pect her of wishing to leave him. 

“Yes, I must take you home,” answered Gouache, 
somewhat absently. To her his tone sounded cold. 

“Are you angry, because I want to go?” asked the 
young girl, looking lovingly into his face. 

“Angry? No indeed, darling ! I ought to have taken 
you home at once — but I was too happy to think of it. 
Of course your people must be terribly anxious, and the 


84 


SANT’ ILAKIO. 


question is how to manage your entrance. Can you get 
into the house unseen? Is there any way? Any small 
door that is open? ’’ 

‘‘We can wake the porter,” said Faustina, simply. 
“He will let us in.” 

“ It would not do. How can I go to your father and 
tell him that I found you here? Besides, the porter 
knows me.” 

“Well, if he does, what does it matter?” 

“He would talk about it to other servants, and all 
Borne would know it to-morrow. You must go home 
with a woman, and to do that we must find some one 
you know. It would be a terrible injury to you to have 
such a story repeated abroad.” 

“Why?” 

To this innocent question Gouache did not find a ready 
answer. He smiled quietly and pressed her to his side 
more closely. 

“ The world is a very bad place, dearest. I am a man 
and know it. You must trust me to do what is best. 
Will you?” 

“How can you ask? I will always trust you.” 

“Then I will tell you what we will do. You must go 
home with the Princess Sant’ Ilario.” 

“ With Corona? But ” 

“She knows that I love you, and she is the only 
woman in Borne whom I would trust. Do not be sur- 
prised. She asked me if it was true, and I said it was. 
I am on duty here, and you must wait for me while I 
make the rounds of my sentries — it will not take five 
minutes. Then I will take you to the Palazzo Saracin- 
esca. I shall not be missed here for an hour.” 

“I will do whatever you wish,” said Faustina. “Per- 
haps that is best. But I am afraid everybody will be 
asleep. Is it not very late?” 

“I will wake them up if they are sleeping.” 

He left her to make his round and soon assured him- 
self that his men were not napping. Then before he 
returned he stopped at the corner of a street and by the 
feeble moonlight scratched a few words on a leaf from 
his notebook. 

“Madame,” he wrote, “I have found Donna Faustina 


sant’ ilario. 


85 


Montevarchi, who had lost her way. It is absolutely 
necessary that you should accompany her to her father’s 
house. You are the only person whom I can trust. I 
am at your gate. Bring something in the way of a cloak 
to disguise her with.” 

He signed his initials and folded the paper, slipping it 
into his pocket where he could readily find it. Then he 
went back to the place where Faustina was waiting. He 
helped her out of the ruins, and passing through a side 
street so as to avoid the sentinels, they made their way 
rapidly to the bridge. The sentry challenged Gouache 
who gave the word at once and was allowed to pass on 
with his charge. In less than a quarter of an hour they 
were at the Palazzo Saracinesca. Gouache made Faus- 
tina stand in the shadow of a doorway on the opposite 
side of the street and advanced to the great doors. A 
ray of light which passed through the crack of a shutter 
behind the heavy iron grating on one side of the arch 
showed that the porter was up. Anastase drew his 
bayonet from his side and tapped with its point against 
the high window. 

^^Who is there?” asked the porter, thrusting his head 
out. 

“ Is the Principe di Sant’ Ilario still awake ? ” asked 
Gouache. 

“He is not at home. Heaven knows where he is. 
What do you want? The princess is sitting up to wait 
for the prince.” 

“That will do as well,” replied Anastase. “I am 
sent with this note from the Vatican. It needs an 
immediate answer. Be good enough to say that I was 
ordered to wait.” 

The explanation satisfied the porter, to whom the 
sight of a Zouave was just then more agreeable than 
usual. He put his arm out through the grating and took 
the paper. 

“ It does not look as though it came from the Vatican,” 
he remarked doubtfully, as he turned the scrap to the 
light of his lamp. 

“ The cardinal'is waiting — make haste ! ” said Gouache. 
It struck him that even if the man could read a little, 
which was not improbable, the initials A. G., being those 


86 


SANT’ ILAKIO. 


of Cardinal Antonelli in reversed order would be enough 
to frighten the fellow and make him move quickly. 
This, indeed was precisely what occurred. 

In five minutes the small door in the gate was opened 
and Gouache saw Corona’s tall figure step out into the 
street. She hesitated a moment when she saw the 
Zouave alone, and then closed the door with a snap 
behind heft*. Gouache bowed quickly and gave her his 
arm. 

‘‘Let us be quick,” he said, “or the porter will see us. 
Donna Faustina is under that doorway. You know how 
grateful I am — there is no time to say it.” 

Corona said , nothing but hastened to Faustina’s side. 
The latter put her arms about her friend’s neck and 
kissed her. The princess threw a wide cloak over the 
young girl’s shoulders and drew the hood over her head. 

“Let us be quick,” said Corona, repeating Gouache’s 
words. They walked quickly away in silence, and no 
one spoke until they reached the Palazzo Montevarchi. 
Explanations were impossible, and every one was too 
much absorbed by the danger of the situation to speak 
of anything else. When they were a few steps from the 
gate Corona stopped. 

“You may leave us here,” she said coldly, addressing 
Gouache. 

“But, princess, I will see you home,” protested the 
latter^ somewhat surprised by her tone. 

“No — I will take a servant back with me. Will you 
be good enough to leave us? ” she asked almost haughtily, 
as Gouache still lingered. 

He had no choice but to obey her commands, though 
for some time he could not explain to himself the cause 
of the princess’s behaviour. 

“Good-night, Madame. Good-night, Mademoiselle,” 
he said, quietly. Then with a low bow he turned away 
and disappeared in the darkness. In five minutes he 
had reached the bridge, running at the top of his speed, 
and he regained his post without his absence having 
been observed. 

When the two women were alone, Corona laid her 
hand upon Faustina’s shoulder and looked down into the 
girl’s face. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


87 


“Faustina, my child,” she said, “how could you be 
led into such a wild scrape?” 

“Why did you treat him so unkindly?” asked the 
young girl with flashing eyes. “It was cruel and 
unkind ” 

“Because he deserved it,” answered Corona, with ris- 
ing anger. “ How could he dare — from my house — a 
mere child like you ” 

“I do not know what you imagine,” said Faustina in 
a tone of deep resentment. “I followed him to the 
Serristori barracks, and I fainted when they were blown 
up. He found me and brought me to you, because he 
said I could not go back to my father’s house with him. 
If I love him what is that to you?” 

“ It is a great deal to me that he should have got you 
into this trouble.” 

“ He did not. If it is trouble, I got myself into it. 
Do you love him yourself that you are so angry?” 

“I! ” cried Corona in amazement at the girl’s audac- 
ity. “ Poor Gouache ! ” she added with a half-scornful, 
half -pitying laugh. “Come, child! Let us go in. We 
cannot stand here all night talking. I will tell your 
mother that you lost your way in our house and were 
found asleep in a distant room. The lock was jammed, 
and you could not get out.” 

“I think I will simply tell the truth,” answered Faus- 
tina. 

“You will do nothing of the kind,” said Corona, 
sternly. “Do you know what would happen? You 
would be shut up in a convent by your father for several 
years, and the world would say that I had favoured your 
meetings with Monsieur Gouache. This is no trifling 
matter. You need say nothing. I will give the whole 
explanation myself, and take the responsibility of the 
falsehood upon my own shoulders.” 

“I promised him to do as he bid me,” replied Faus- 
tina. “ I suppose he would have me follow your advice, 
and so I will. Are you still angry. Corona? ” 

“I will try not to be, if you will be sensible.” 

They knocked at the gate and were soon admitted. 
The whole household was on foot, though it was past 
one o’clock. It is unnecessary to describe the emotions 


88 


sant’ ilario. 


of Faustina’s relations, nor their gratitude to Corona., 
whose explanation they accepted at once, with a delight 
which may easily be imagined. 

“But your porter said he had seen her leave your 
house,” said the Princess Montevarchi, recollecting the 
detail and anxious to have it explained. 

“He was mistaken, in his fright,” returned Corona, 
calmly. “It was only my maid, who ran out to see 
what was the matter and returned soon afterwards.” 

There was nothing more to be said. The old prince 
and Ascanio Bellegra walked heme with Corona, who 
refused to wait until a carriage could he got ready, on 
the ground that her husband might have returned fioni 
the search and might be anxious at her absence. She 
left her escort at her door and mounted the steps alone. 
As she was going up the porter came running after her. 

“Excellency,” he said in low tones, “the Signor Prin- 
cipe came back while you were gone, and I told him that 
you had received a note from the Vatican and had gone 
away with the Zouave who brought it. I hope I did 
right ” 

“ Of course you did, ” replied Corona. She was a calm 
woman and not easily thrown off her guard, but as she 
made her answer she was conscious of an unpleasant 
sensation wholly new to her. She had never done any- 
thing concerning which she had reason to ask herself 
what Giovanni would think of it. For the first time 
since her marriage with him she knew that she had 
something to conceal. How, indeed, was it possible to 
tell him the story of Faustina’s wild doings? Giovanni 
was a man who knew the world, and had no great belief 
in its virtues. To tell him what had occurred would be 
to do Faustina an irreparable injury in his eyes. He 
would believe his wife, no doubt, but he would tell her 
that Faustina had deceived her. She cared little what 
he might think of Gouache, for she herself was incensed 
against him, believing that he must certainly have used 
some persuasion to induce Faustina to follow him, mad 
as the idea seemed. 

Corona had little time for reflection, however. She 
could not stand upon the stairs, and as soon as she 
entered the house she must meet her husband. She made 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


89 


Up her mind hurriedly to do what in most cases is 
extremely dangerous. Giovanni was in her boudoir, 
pale and anxious. He had forgotten that he had not 
dined that evening and was smoking a cigarette with 
short sharp puffs. 

“ Thank God ! ’’ he cried, as his wife entered the room. 
“Where have you been, my darling?” 

“Giovanni,” said Corona, gravely, laying her two 
hands on his shoulders, “ you know you can trust me — 
do you not? ” 

“ As I trust Heaven, ” he answered, tenderly. 

“You must trust me now, then,” said she. “I cannot 
tell you where I have been. I will tell you some day, 
you have my solemn promise. Faustina Monte varchi is 
with her mother. I took her back, and told them she 
had followed me from the room, had lost her way in 
the house, and had accidentally fastened a door which 
she could not open. You must support the story. You 
need only say that I told you so, because you were out 
at the time. I will not lie to you, so I tell you that I 
invented the story.” 

Sant’ Ilario was silent for a few minutes, during which 
he looked steadily into his wife’s eyes, which met his 
without flinching. 

“You shall do as you please. Corona,” he said at last, 
returning the cigarette to his lips and still looking at 
her. “Will you answer me one question?” 

“If I can without explaining.” 

“That Zouave who brought the message from the 
Vatican — was he Gouache?” 

Corona turned her eyes away, annoyed at the demand. 
To refuse to answer was tantamount to admitting the 
truth, and she would not lie to her husband. 

“It was Gouache,” she said, after a moment’s hesita- 
tion. 

“I thought so,” answered Sant’ Ilario in a low voice. 
He moved away, throwing his cigarette into the fireplace. 
“Very well,” he continued, “I will remember to tell the 
story as you told it to me, and I am sure you will tell 
me the truth some day.” 

“Of course,” said Corona. “And I thank you, Gio- 
vanni, with my whole heart ! There is no one like you, 
dear.” 


90 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


She sat down in a chair beside him as he stood, and 
taking his hand she pressed it to her lips. She knew 
well enough what a strange thing she had asked, and she 
was indeed grateful to him. He stooped down and kissed 
her forehead. 

“I will always trust you,” he said, softly. “Tell me, 
dear one, has this matter given you pain? Is it a secret 
that will trouble you? ” 

“Not now,” she answered, frankly. 

Giovanni was in earnest when he promised to trust his 
wife. He knew, better than any living man, how well 
worthy she was of his utmost confidence, and he meant 
what he said. It must be confessed that the situation 
was a trying one to a man of his temper, and the depth 
of his love for Corona can be judged from the readiness 
with which he consented to her concealing anything from 
him. Every circumstance connected with what had 
happened that evening was strange, and the conclusion, 
instead of elucidating the mystery, only made it more 
mysterious still. His cousin’s point-blank declaration 
that Faustina and Gouache were in love was startling to 
all his ideas and prejudices. He had seen Gouache kiss 
Corona’s hand in a corner of the drawing-room, a pro- 
ceeding which he did not wholly approve, though it was 
common enough. Then Gouache and Faustina had dis- 
appeared. Then Faustina had been found, and to facil- 
itate the finding it had been necessary that Corona and 
Gouache should leave the palace together at one o’clock 
in the morning. Finally, Corona had appealed to his 
confidence in her and had taken advantage of it to refuse 
any present explanation whatever of her proceedings. 
Corona was a very noble and true woman, and he had 
promised to trust her. How far he kept his word will 
appear hereafter. 


CHAPTER VII. 

When San Giacinto heard Corona’s explanation of 
Faustina’s disappearance, he said nothing.' He did not 
believe the story in the least, but if every one was satis- 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


91 


fied there was no reason why he should not be satisfied 
also. Though he saw well enough that the tale was a 
pure invention, and that there was something behind it 
which was not to be known, the result was, on the whole, 
exactly what he desired. He received the thanks of the 
Montevarchi household for his fruitless exertions with 
a smile of gratification, and congratulated the princess 
upon the happy issue of the adventure. He made no 
present attempt to ascertain the real truth by asking 
questions which would have been hard to answer, for he 
was delighted that the incident should be explained away 
and forgotten at once. Donna Faustina’s disappearance 
was of course freely discussed and variously commented, 
but the general verdict of the world was contrary to San 
Giacinto’s private conclusions. People said that the 
account given by the family must be true, since it was 
absurd to suppose that a child just out of the convent 
could be either so foolish or so courageous as to go out 
alone at such a moment. No other hypothesis was in 
the least tenable, and the demonstration offered must be 
accepted as giving the only solution of the problem. San 
Giacinto told no one that he thought differently. 

It was before all things his intention to establish him- 
self firmly in Roman society, and his natural tact told 
him that the best way to accomplish this was to offend 
no one, and to endorse without question the opinion of 
the majority. Moreover, as a part of his plan for assur- 
ing his position consisted in marrying Faustina’s sister, 
his interest lay manifestly in protecting the good name 
9f her family by every means in his power. He knew 
that old Montevarchi passed for being one of the most 
rigid amongst the stiff company of the strait-laced, and 
that the prince was as careful of the conduct of his chil- 
dren, as his father had formerly been in regard to his 
own doings. Ascanio Bellegra was the result of this 
home education, and already bid fair to follow in his 
parent’s footsteps. Christian virtues are certainly not 
incompatible with manliness, but the practice of them as 
maintained by Prince Montevarchi had made his son 
Ascanio a colourless creature, rather non-bad than good, 
clothed in a garment of righteousness that fitted him 
only because his harmless soul had no salient bosses of 


92 


SANT ILARIO. 


goodness, any more than it was disfigured by any repre- 
hensible depressions capable of harbouring evil. 

There is a class of men in certain states of society who 
are manly, but not masculine. There is nothing para- 
doxical in the statement, nor is it a mere play upon the 
meanings of words. There are men of all ages, young, 
middle-aged, and old, who possess many estimable vir- 
tues, who show physical courage wherever it is necessary, 
who are honourable, strong, industrious, and tenacious of 
purpose, but who undeniably lack something which be- 
longs to the ideal man, and which, for want of a better 
word, we call the masculine element. When we shall 
have microscopes so large and powerful that a human 
* being shall be as transparent under the concentrated light 
of the lenses as the tiniest insect when placed in one of 
our modern instruments, then, perhaps, the scientist of 
the future may discover the causes of this difference. I 
believe, however, that it does not depend upon the fact 
of one man having a few ounces more of blood in his veins 
than another. The fact lies deeper hidden than that, 
and may puzzle the psychologist as well as the professor 
of anthropology. Torus it exists, and we cannot explain 
it, but must content ourselves with comparing the phe- 
nomena which proceed from these differences of organi- 
sation. At the present day the society of the English- 
speaking races seems to favour the growth of the creature 
Avho is only manly but not masculine, whereas outside 
the pale of that strange little family which calls itself 
“ society ” the masculinity of man is more striking than 
among other races. Not long ago a Trench journalist 
said that many of the peculiarities of the English-speak- 
ing peoples proceeded from the omnipresence of the 
young girl, who reads every novel that appears, goes to 
every theatre, and regulates the tone of conversation and 
literature by her never-absent innocence. Cynics, if 
there are still representatives of a school which has 
grown ridiculous, may believe this if they please; the 
fact remains that it is precisely the most masculine class 
of men who show the strongest predilection for the society 
of the most refined women, and who on the whole show 
the greatest respect for all women in general. The mas- 
culine man prefers the company of the other sex by 


SANT’ ILAEIO. 


93 


natural attraction, and would perhaps rather fight with 
other men, or at least strive to outdo them in the strug- 
gle for notoriety, power, or fame, than spend his time in 
friendly conversation with them, no matter how inter- 
esting the topic selected. This point of view may be 
regarded as uncivilised, but it may be pointed out that 
it is only in the most civilised countries that the society 
of women is accessible to all men of their own social 
position. No one familiar with Eastern countries will 
pretend that Orientals shut up their women because they 
enjoy their company so much as to be unwilling to share 
the privilege with their friends. 

San Giacinto was pre-eminently a masculine man, as 
indeed were all the Saracinesca, in a greater or less de- 
gree. He understood women instinctively, and, with a 
very limited experience of the world, knew well enough 
the strength of their influence. It was characteristic of 
him that he had determined to marry almost as soon as 
he had got a footing in Koman society. He saw clearly 
that if he could unite himself with a powerful family he 
could exercise a directing power over the women which 
must ultimately give him all that he needed. Through 
his cousins he had very soon made the acquaintance of 
the Montevarchi household, and seeing that there were 
two marriageable daughters, he profited by the introduc- 
tion. He would have preferred Faustina, perhaps, but 
he foresaw that he should find fewer difficulties in ob- 
taining her sister for his wife. The old prince and prin- 
cess were in despair at seeing her still unmarried, and it 
was clear that they were not likely to find a better match 
for her than the Marchese di San Giacinto. He, on his 
part, knew that his past occupation was a disadvantage 
to him in the eyes of the world, although he was the 
undoubted and acknowledged cousin of the Saracinesca, 
and the only man of the family besides old Leone and 
his son Sant’ Ilario. His two boys, also, were a draw- 
back, since his second wife’s children could not inherit 
the whole of the property he expected to leave. But his 
position was good, and Flavia was not generally consid- 
ered to be likely to marry, so that he had good hopes of’ 
winning her. 

It was clear to him from the first that there must be 


94 


sant’ ilario. 


some reason why she had not married, and the somewhat 
disparaging remarks concerning her which he heard from 
time to time excited his curiosity. As he had always 
intended to consult the head of his family upon the mat- 
ter he now determined to do so at once. He was not 
willing, indeed, to let matters go any further until he 
had ascertained the truth concerning her, and he was sure 
that Prince Saracinesca would tell him everything at the 
first mention of a proposal to marry her. The old gen- 
tleman had too much pride to allow his cousin to make 
an unfitting match. Accordingly, on the day following 
the events last narrated San Giacinto called after break- 
fast and found the prince, as usual, alone in his study. 
He was not dozing, however, for the accounts of the last 
night’s doings in the Osservatore Romano were very 
interesting. 

“I suppose you have heard all about Montevarchi’s 
daughter?” asked Saracinesca, laying his paper aside 
and giving his hand to San Giacinto. 

“Yes, and I am delighted at the conclusion of the ad- 
venture, especially as I have something to ask you about 
another member of the family.” 

“I hope Plavia has not disappeared now,” remarked 
the prince. 

“I trust not,” answered San Giacinto with a laugh. 
“ I was going to ask you whether I should have your 
approval if I proposed to marry her.” 

“ This is a very sudden announcement, ” said Saracin- 
esca with some surprise. “I must think about it. I 
appreciate your friendly disposition vastly, my dear 
cousin, in asking my opinion, and I will give the matter 
my best consideration.” 

“I shall be very grateful,” replied the younger man, 
gravely. “ In my position I feel bound to consult you. 
I should do so in any case for the mere benefit of your 
advice, which is very needful to one who, like myself, 
is but a novice in the ways of Home.” 

Saracinesca looked keenly at his cousin, as though 
expecting to discover some touch of irony in his tone or 
expression. He remembered the fierce altercations he 
had engaged in with Giovanni when he had wished the 
latter to marry Tullia Mayer, and was astonished to find 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


95 


San Giacinto, over whom he had no real authority at all, 
so docile and anxious for his counsel. 

I suppose you would like to know something about 
her fortune,” he said at last. “Montevarchi is rich, but 
miserly. He could give her anything he liked.” 

Of course it is important to know what he would like 
to give,” replied San Giacinto with a smile. 

“Of course. Very well. There are two daughters 
already married. They each had a hundred thousand 
scudi. It is not so bad, after all, when you think what a 
large family he has — but he could have given more. As 
for Flavia, he might do something generous for the sake 
of ” 

The old gentleman was going to say, for the sake of 
getting rid of her, and perhaps his cousin thought as 
much. The prince checked himself, however, and ended 
his sentence rather awkwardly. 

“For the sake of getting such a fine fellow for a hus- 
band,” he said. 

“ Why is she not already married? ” inquired San Gia- 
cinto with a very slight inclination of his head, as an 
acknowledgment of the fiattering speech whereby the 
prince had helped himself out of his difficulty. 

“ Who knows! ” ejaculated the latter enigmatically. 

“Is there any story about her? Was she ever engaged 
to be married? It is rather strange when one thinks of 
it, for she is a handsome girl. Pray be quite frank — I 
have taken no steps in the matter.” 

“ The fact is that I do not know. She is not like other 
girls, and as she gives her father and mother some trou- 
ble in society, I suppose that young men’s fathers have 
been afraid to ask for her. Ho. I can assure you that 
there is no story connected with her. She has a way of 
stating disagreeable truths that terrifies Montevarchi. 
She was delicate as a child and was brought up at home, 
so of course she has no manners.” 

“ I should have thought she should have better manners 
for that,” remarked San Giacinto. The prince stared at 
him in surprise. 

“We do not think so here,” he answered after a mo- 
ment’s pause. “ On the whole, I should say that for a 
hundred and twenty thousand you might marry her, if 


96 


sant’ ilakto. 


you are so inclined — and if you can manage her. But 
that is a matter for you to judge.” 

The Montevarchi are, I believe, what you call a great 
family? ” 

“ They are not the Savelli, nor the Frangipani — nor 
the Saracinesca either. But they are a good family — 
good blood, good fortune, and what Montevarchi calls 
good principles.” 

“You think I could not do better than marry Donna 
Flavia, then?” 

“It would be a good marriage, decidedly. You ought 
to have married Tullia Mayer. If she had not made a 
fool of herself and an enemy of me, and if you had turned 
up two years ago — well, there were a good many objec- 
tions to her, and stories about her, too. But she was 
rich — eh ! that was a fortune to be snapped up by that 
scoundrel Del Ferice ! ” 

“Del Ferice?” repeated San Giacinto. “The same 
who tried to prove that your son was married by copying 
my marriage register? ” 

“ The same. I will tell you the rest of the story some 
day. Then at that time there was Bianca Valdarno — 
but she married a Neapolitan last year; and the Bocca 
girl, but Onorato Cantalupo got her and her dowry — 
Montevarchi’s second son — and — well, I see nobody 
now, except Flavians sister Faustina. Why not marry 
her? It is true that her father means to catch young 
Frangipani, but he will have no such luck, I can tell 
him, unless he will part with half a million.” 

“Donna Faustina is too young,” said San Giacinto, 
calmly. “Besides, as they are sisters and there is so 
little choice, I may say that I prefer Donna Flavia. she 
is more gay, more lively.” 

“Vastly more, I have no doubt, and you will have to 
look after her, unless you can make her fall in love with 
you.” Saracinesca laughed at the idea. 

“With me!” exclaimed San Giacinto, joining in his 
cousin’s merriment. “With me, indeed! A sober wid- 
ower, between thirty and forty ! A likely thing ! For- 
tunately there is no question of love in this matter. I 
think I can answer for her conduct, however.” 

“ I would not be the man to raise your jealousy ! ” 


sant’ ilarto. 


97 


remarked Saracinesca, laughing again as he looked ad- 
miringly at his cousin^s gigantic figure and lean stern 
face. “ You are certainly able to take care of your wife. 
Besides, I have no doubt that Flavia will change when 
she is married. She is not a bad girl — only a little too 
fond of making fun of her father and mother, and after 
all, as far as the old man is concerned, I do not wonder. 
There is one point upon which you must satisfy him, 
though — I am not curious, and do not ask you ques- 
tions, but I warn you that glad as he will be to marry 
his daughter, he will want to drive a bargain with you 
and will inquire about your fortune.” 

San Giacinto was silent for a few moments and seemed 
to be making a calculation in his head. 

“ Would a fortune equal to what he gives her be suffi- 
cient?” he asked at length. 

‘‘Yes. I fancy so,” replied the prince looking rather 
curiously at his cousin. “You see,” he continued, “as 
you have children by your first marriage, Montevarchi 
would wish to see Flavia’s son provided for, if she has 
one. That is your affair. I do not want to make sug- 
gestions.” 

“ I think, ” said San Giacinto after another short inter- 
val of silence, “that I could agree to settle something 
upon any children which may be born. Do you think 
some such arrangement would satisfy Prince Monte- 
varchi? ” 

“ Certainly, if you can agree about the terms. Such 
things are often done in these cases.” 

“I am very grateful for your adivce. May I count 
upon your good word with the prince, if he asks your 
opinion?” 

“Of course,” answered Saracinesca, readily, if not 
very cordially. 

He had not at first liked his cousin, and although he 
had overcome his instinctive aversion to the man, the 
feeling was momentarily revived with more than its for- 
mer force by the prospect of being perhaps called upon 
to guarantee, in a measure, San Giacinto^ s character as 
a suitable husband for Flavia. He had gone too far 
already however, for since he had given his approval to 
the scheme it would not become him to withhold his co- 

u 


98 


sant’ ilario. 


operation, should his assistance be in any way necessary 
in order to bring about the marriage. The slight change 
of tone as he uttered the last words had not escaped San 
Giacinto, however. His perceptions were naturally quick 
and were sharpened by the peculiarities of his present 
position, so that he understood Saracinesca’s unwilling- 
ness to have a hand in the matter almost better than the 
prince understood it himself. 

“ I trust that I shall not be obliged to ask your help, 
remarked San Giacinto. I was, indeed, more anxious 
for your goodwill than for any more material aid.^^ 

“You have it, with all my heart,” said Saracinesca 
warmly, for he was a little ashamed of his coldness. 

San Giacinto took his leave and went away well satis- 
fied with what he had accomplished, as indeed he had 
good cause to be. Montevarchi’s consent to the mar- 
riage was not doubtful, now that San Giacinto was as- 
sured that he was able to fulfil the conditions which 
would be asked, and the knowledge that he was able to 
do even more than was likely to be required of him gave 
him additional confidence in the result. To tell the truth, 
he was strongly attracted by Flavia; and though he would 
assuredly have fought with his inclination had it appeared 
to be misplaced, he was pleased with the prospect of marry- 
ing a woman who would not only strengthen his position 
in society, but for whom he knew that he was capable of 
a sincere attachment. Marriage, according to his light, 
was before all things a contract entered into for mutual 
advantage ; but he saw no reason why the fulfilment of 
such a contract should not be made as agreeable as pos- 
sible. 

The principal point was yet to be gained, however, and 
as San Giacinto mounted the steps of the Palazzo Mon- 
tevarchi he stopped more than once, considering for the 
last time whether he were doing wisely or not. On the 
whole he determined to proceed, and made up his mind 
that he would go straight to the point. 

Flavians father was sitting in his study when San Gia- 
cinto arrived, and the latter was struck by the contrast 
between the personalities and the modes of life of his 
cousin whom he had just left and of the man to whom he 
was about to propose himself as a son-in-law. The Sara- 


sant’ ilario. 


99 


cinesca were by no means very luxurious men, but they 
understood the comforts of existence better than most 
Romans of that day. If there was massive old-fashioned 
furniture against the walls and in the corners of the huge 
rooms, there were on the other hand soft carpets for the 
feet and cushioned easy-chairs to sit in. There were 
fires on the hearths when the weather was cold, and 
modern lamps for the long winter evenings. There were 
new books on the tables, engravings, photographs, a few 
objects of value and beauty not jealously locked up in 
closets, but looking as though they were used, if useful, 
or at least as if some one derived pleasure from looking 
at them. The palace itself was a stern old fortress in the 
midst of the older part of the city, but within there was 
a genial atmosphere of generous living, and, since Sant’ 
Ilario’s marriage with Corona, an air of refinement and 
good taste such as only a woman can impart to the house 
in which she dwells. 

The residence of the Montevarchi was very different. 
Narrrow strips of carpet were stretched in straight lines 
across cold marble floors, from one door to another. In- 
stead of open fires in the huge chimney-places, pans of 
lighted charcoal were set in the dim, empty rooms. Half 
a dozen halls were furnished alike. Each had three 
marble tables and twelve straight-backed chairs ranged 
against the walls, the only variety being that some were 
covered with red damask and some with green. Vast old- 
fashioned mirrors, set in magnificent frames built into 
the wall, reflected vistas of emptiness and acres of cold 
solitude. Nor were the rooms where the family met 
much better. There were more tables and more straight- 
backed chairs there than in the outer halls, but that was 
all. The drawing-room had a carpet, which for many 
years had been an object of the greatest concern to the 
prince, who never left Rome for the months of August 
and September until he had assured himself that this 
valuable object had been beaten, dusted, peppered, and 
sewn up in a linen case as old as itself, that is to say, 
dating from a quarter of a century back. That carpet was 
an extravagance to which his father had been driven by 
his English daughter-in-law; it was the only one of 
which he had ever been guilty, and the present head of 


LofC. 


100 


sant’ ilario. 


the family meant that it should last his lifetime, and 
longer too, if care could preserve it. The princess her- 
self had been made to remember for five and twenty 
years that since she had obtained a carpet she must ex- 
pect nothing else in the way of modern improvements. 
It was the monument of a stupendous energy which she 
had expended entirely in that one struggle, and the sight 
of it reminded her of her youth. Lcng ago she had sub- 
mitted once and for ever to the old Ecman ways, and 
though she knew that a very little saved from the ex- 
pense of maintaining a score of useless servants and a 
magnificent show equipage wculd suffice to make at least 
one room in the house ccmfortable for her use, she no 
longer sighed at the reflection, but consoled herself with 
making her children put up with the inconveniences she 
herself had borne so long and so patiently. 

Prince Montevarchi’s private room was as comfortless 
as the rest of the house. Narrow, high, dim, carpetless, 
insufficiently warmed in winter by a brazier of coals, and 
at present not warmed at all, though the weather was 
chilly; furnished shabbily with dusty shelves, a writing- 
table, and a few chairs with leather seats, musty with 
an ancient mustiness which seemed to be emitted by the 
rows of old books and the moth-eaten baize cover of the 
table — the whole place looked more like the office of a 
decayed notary than the study of a wealthy nobleman of 
ancient lineage. The old gentleman himself entered the 
room a few seconds after San Giacinto had been ushered 
in, having slipped out to change his coat when his visitor 
was announced. It was a fixed principle of his life to 
dress as well as his neighbours when they could see him, 
but to wear threadbare garments whenever he could do 
so unobserved. He greeted San Giacinto with a grave 
dignity which contrasted strangely with the weakness 
and excitement he had shown on the previous night. 

‘^1 wish to speak to you upon a delicate subject,” 
began the younger man, after seating himself upon one 
of the high-backed chairs which cracked ominously under 
his weight. 

“I am at your service,” replied the old gentleman, 
inclining his head politely. 

feel,” continued San Giacinto, ^Hhat although my 


sant’ ilario. 


101 


personal acquaintance with you has unfortunately been 
of short duration, the familiarity which exists between 
your family and mine will entitle what I have to say to 
a share of your consideration. The proposal which I 
have to make has perhaps been made by others before 
me and has been rejected. I have the honour to ask of 
you the hand of your daughter.’’ 

“Faustina, I suppose?” asked the old prince in an 
indifferent tone, but looking sharply at his companion 
out of his small keen eyes. 

“Pardon me, I refer to Donna Flavia Montevarchi.” 

“ Flavia? ” repeated the prince, in a tone of unmistak- 
able surprise, which however was instantly moderated to 
the indifferent key again as he proceeded. “You see, 
we have been thinking so much about my daughter 
Faustina since last night that her name came to my lips 
quite naturally.” 

“Most natural, I am sure,” answered San Giacinto; 
who, however, had understood at once that his suit was 
to have a hearing. He then remained silent. 

“You wish to marry Flqvia, I understand,” remarked 
the prince after a pause. “ I believe you are a widower, 
Marchese. I have heard that you have children,” 

“ Two boys.” 

“Two boys, eh? I congratulate you. Boys, if brought 
up in Christian principles, are much less troublesome 
than girls. But, my dear Marchese, these same boys 
are an obstacle — a very serious obstacle.” 

“Less serious than you may imagine, perhaps. My 
fortune does not come under the law of primogeniture. 
There is no Jidei commissum. I can dispose of it as I 
please.’’ 

“Eh, eh! But there must be a provision,” said 
Montevarchi, growing interested in the subject. 

“ That shall be mutual, ” replied San Giacinto, gravely. 

“I suppose you mean to refer to my daughter’s por- 
tion,” returned the other with more indifference. “It is 
not much, you know — scarcely worth mentioning. I 
am bound to tell you that, in honour. ” 

“We must certainly discuss the matter, if you are 
inclined to consider my proposal.” 

“Well, you know what young women’s dowries are 


102 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


in these days, my dear Marchese. We are none of us 
very rich.’^ 

“I will make a proposal,” said San Giacinto. ^‘You 
shall give your daughter a portion. Whatever he the 
amount, up to a reasonable limit, which you choose to 
give, I will settle a like sum in Such a manner that at 
my death it shall revert to her, and to her children by 
me, if she have any.” 

“That amounts merely to settling upon herself the 
dowry I give her,” replied Monte var chi, sharply. “ I give 
you a scudo for your use. You settle my scudo upon 
your wife, that is all.” 

“Not at all,” returned San Giacinto. “I do not wish 
to have control of her dowry ” 

“The devil! Oh — I see — how stupid of me — I am 
indeed so old that I cannot count any more 1 How could 
I make such a mistake? Of course, it would be exactly 
as you say. Of course it would.” 

“It would not be so as a general rule,” said San 
Giacinto, calmly, “ because most men would not consent 
to such an arrangement. That, however, is my pro- 
posal.” 

“ Oh 1 For the sake of Flavia, a man would do much, 
I am sure,” answered the prince, who began to think 
that his visitor was in love with the girl, incredible as 
such a thing appeared to him. The younger man made 
no answer to this remark, however, and waited for Monte- 
varchi to state his terms. 

“ How much shall we say ? ” asked the latter at length. 

“ That shall be for you to decide. Whatever you give 
I will give, if I am able.” 

“ Ah, yes I But how am I to know what you are able 
to give, dear Marchese?” The prince suspected that 
San Giacinto’s offer, if he could be induced to make one, 
would not be very large. 

“Am I to understand,” inquired San Giacinto, “that, 
if I name the amount to be settled so that at my death 
it goes to my wife and her children by me for ever, you 
will agree to settle a like sum upon Donna Flavia in her 
own right? If so, I will propose what I think fair.” 

Montevarchi looked keenly at his visitor for some 
moments, then looked away and hesitated. He was very 


sant’ ilaeio. 


103 


anxious to marry Flavia at once, and he had many rea- 
sons for supposing that San Giacinto was not very rich. 

‘‘How about the title?’’ he asked suddenly. 

“ My title, of course, goes to my eldest son by my first 
marriage. But if you are anxious on that score I think 
my cousin would willingly confer one of his upon the 
eldest son of your daughter. It would cost him nothing, 
and would be a sort of compensation to me for my great- 
granifabher’s folly.” 

“How?” asked Montevarchi. “I do not understand.” 

“I supposed you knew the story. I am the direct 
descend int of the elder branch. There was an agree- 
ment between two brothers of the family, by which the 
elder resigned the primogeniture in favour of the younger 
who was then married. The elder, who took the San 
Giacinto title, married late in life and I am his great- 
grandson. If he had not acted so foolishly I should be 
in my cousin’s shoes. You see it would be natural for 
him to let me have some disused title for one of my 
children in consideration of this fact. He has about a 
hundred, I believe. You could ask him, if you please.” 

San Giacinto’s grave manner assured Montevarchi of 
the truth of the story. He hesitated a moment longer, 
and then made up his mind. 

“I agree to your proposal, my dear Marchese,” he 
said, with unusual blandness of manner. 

“ I will settle one hundred and fifty thousand scudi in 
the way I stated,” said San Giacinto, simply. The 
prince started from his chair. 

“ One — hundred — and — fifty — thousand ! ” he re- 
peated slowly. “ Why, it is a fortune in itself ! Dear 
"me ! I had no idea you would name anything so large 

j? 

“Seven thousand five hundred scudi a year, at five 
per cent, ” remarked the younger man in a businesslike 
tone. “ You give the same. That will insure our chil- 
dren an income of fifteen thousand scudi. It is not 
colossal, but it should suffice. Besides, I have not said 
that I would not leave them more, if I chanced to have 
more to leave.” 

The prince had sunk back into his chair, and sat 
drumming on the table with his long thin fingers. His 


104 


sant’ ilario. 


face wore an air of mingled surprise and bewilderment. 
To tell tbe truth, he had expected that San Giacinto 
would name about fifty thousand as the sum requisite. 
He did not know whether to be delighted at the prospect 
of marrying his daughter so well or angry at the idea of 
having committed himself to part with so much money. 

“That is much more than I gave my other daughters/’ 
he said at last, in a tone of hesitation. 

“Did you give the money to them or to their hus- 
bands?” inquired San Giacinto. 

“To their husbands, of course.” 

“Then allow me to point out that you will now be 
merely settling money in your own family, and that the 
case is very different. Not only that, but I am settling 
the same sum upon your family, instead of taking your 
money for my own use. You are manifestly the gainer 
by the transaction.” 

“ It would be the same, then, if I left Tlavia the money 
at my death, 'since it remains in the family,” suggested 
the prince, who sought an escape from his bargain. 

“Not exactly,” argued San Giacinto. “First there is 
the yearly interest until your death, which I trust is yet 
very distant. And then there is the uncertainty of 
human affairs. It will be necessary that you invest the 
money in trust, as I shall do, at the time of signing the 
contract. Otherwise there would be no fairness in 
the arrangement.” 

“ So you say that you are descended from the elder 
branch of the Saracinesca. How strange are the ways 
of Providence, my dear Marchese ! ” 

“ It was a piece of great folly on the part of my great- 
grandfather, ” replied the other, shrugging his shoulders. 
“ You should never say that a man will not marry until 
he is dead.” 

“ Ah no ! The ways of heaven are inscrutable ! It is 
not for us poor mortals to attempt to change them. I 
suppose that agreement of which you speak was made in 
proper form and quite regular.” 

“ I presume so, since no effort was ever made to change 
the dispositions established by it.” 

“I suppose so — I suppose so, dear Marchese. It 
would be very interesting to see those papers.” 


sant’ ilario. 


105 


“ My cousin has them, ” said San Giacinto. “ I dare- 
say he will not object. But, pardon me if I return to a 
subject which is very near my heart. Do I understand 
that you consent to the proposal I have made? If so, 
we might make arrangements for a meeting to take place 
between our notaries.’’ 

“One hundred aud fifty thousand,” said Montevarchi, 
slowly rubbing his pointed chin with his bony fingers. 
“Five per cent — seven thousand five hundred — a mint 
of money. Signor Marchese, a mint of money! And 
these are hard times. What a rich man you must be, 
to talk so lightly about such immense sums 1 Well, well 
— you are very eloquent, I must consent, and by strict 
economy I may perhaps succeed in recovering the loss.” 

“You must be aware that it is not really a loss,” 
argued San Giacinto, “ since it is to remain with your 
daughter and her children, and consequently with your 
family.” 

“Yes, I know. But money is money, my friend,” 
exclaimed the prince, laying his right hand on the old 
green tablecover and slowly drawing his crooked nails 
over the cloth, as though he would like to squeeze gold 
out of the dusty wool. There was something almost 
fierce in his tone, too, as he uttered the words, and his 
small eyes glittered unpleasantly. He knew well enough 
that he was making a good bargain and that San Giacinto 
was a better match than he had ever hoped to get for 
Flavia. So anxious was he, indeed, to secure the prize 
that he entirely abstained from asking any questions 
concerning San Giacinto ’s past life, whereby some obsta- 
cle might have been raised to the intended marriage. 
He promised himself that the wedding should take place 
at once. 

“It is understood,” he continued, after a pause, “that 
we or our notaries shall appear with the money in cash, 
and that it shall be immediately invested as we shall 
jointly decide, the settlements being made at the same 
time and on the spot.” 

“Precisely so,” replied San Giacinto. “Ho money, no 
contract. ” 

“ In that case I Avill inform my daughter of my decis- 
ion.” 


106 


sant’ ilaeio. 


I shall be glad to avail myself of an early opportu- 
nity to pay my respects to Donna Flavia/^ 

The wedding might take place on the 30th of ISTovem- 
ber, my dear Marchese. The 1st of December is Advent 
Sunday, and no marriages are permitted during Advent 
without a special licence/’ 

“ An expensive affair, doubtless,” remarked San Gia- 
cinto, gravely, in spite of his desire to laugh. 

“Yes. Five scudi at least,” answered Montevarchi, 
impressively. 

“Let us by all means be economical.” 

“ The Holy Church is very strict about these matters, 
and you may as well keej) the money.” 

“I will,” replied San Giacinto, rising to go. “Do not 
let me detain you any longer. Pray accept my warmest 
thanks, and allow me to say that I shall consider it a 
very great honour to become your son-in-law.” 

“Ah, indeed, you are very good, my dear Marchese. 
As for me I need consolation. Consider a father’s feel- 
ings, when he consigns his beloved daughter — Flavia is 
an angel upon earth, my friend — when, I say, a father 
gives his dear child, whom he loves as the apple of his 
eye, to be carried off by a man — a man even of your 
worth! When your children are grown up, you will 
understand what I suffer.” 

“I quite understand,” said San Giacinto in serious 
tones. “ It shall be the endeavour of my life to make 
you forget your loss. May I have the honour of calling 
to-morrow at this time?” 

“Yes, my dear Marchese, yes, my dear son — forgive 
a father’s tenderness. To-morrow at this time, and 

” he hesitated. “ And then — some time before the 

ceremony, perhaps — you will give us the pleasure of 
your company at breakfast, I am sure, will you not? We 
are very simple people, but we are hospitable in our 
quiet way. Hospitality is a virtue,” he sighed a little. 
“A necessary virtue,” he added with some emphasis 
upon the adjective. 

“It will give me great pleasure,” replied San Giacinto. 

Therewith he left the room and a few moments later 
was walking slowly homewards, revolving in his mind 
the probable results of his union with the Montevarchi 
family. 


sant’ ilaeio. 


107 


When Montevarchi was alone, he smiled pleasantly to 
himself, and took out of a secret drawer a large book of 
accounts, in the study of which he spent nearly half an 
hour, with evident satisfaction. Having carefully locked 
up the volume, and returned the sliding panel to its 
place, he sent for his wife, who presently appeared. 

“ Sit down, Guendalina,’’ he said. “I will change my 
coat, and then I have something important to say to 
you.’’ 

He had quite forgotten the inevitable change in his 
satisfaction over the interview with San Giacinto, but 
the sight of the princess recalled the necessity for econ- 
omy. It had been a part of the business of his life to 
set her a good example in this respect. When he came 
back he seated himself before her. 

“My dear, I have got a husband for Flavia,” were his 
first words. 

“At last!” exclaimed the princess. “I hope he is 
presentable, ” she added. She knew that she could trust 
her husband in the matter of fortune. 

“The new Saracinesca — the Marchese di San Gia- 
cinto.” 

Princess Montevarchi’s ruddy face expressed the 
greatest astonishment, and her jaw dropped as she 
stared at the old gentleman. 

“ A pauper ! ” she exclaimed when she had recovered 
herself enough to speak. 

“ Perhaps, Guendalina mia — but he settles a hundred 
and fifty thousand scudi on Plavia and her heirs for ever, 
the money to be paid on the signing of the contract. 
That does not look like pauperism. Of course, under 
The circumstances I agreed to do the same. It is settled 
on Flavia, do you understand? He does not want a penny 
of it, not a penny! Trust your husband for a serious 
man of business, Guendalina.” 

“ Have you spoken to Flavia? It certainly looks like 
a good match. There is no doubt about his being of the 
Saracinesca, of course. How could there be? They have 
taken him to their hearts. But how will Flavia behave? ” 

“ What a foolish question, my dear ! ” exclaimed Mon- 
tevarchi. “ How easily one sees that you are English ! 
She will be delighted, I presume. And if not, what 
difference does it make?” 


108 


SANT’ ILAKIO. 


I would not have married you against my will, Lo- 
tario,” observed the princess. 

“ For my part, I had no choice. My dear father said 
simply, ‘My son, you will pay your respects to that 
young lady, who is to be your wife. If you wish to 
marry any one else, I will lock you up.’ And so I did. 
Have I not been a faithful husband to you, Guendalina, 
through more than thirty years?” 

The argument was unanswerable, and Montevarchi had 
employed it each time one of his children was married. 
In respect of faithfulness, at least, he had been a model 
husband. 

“It is sufficient,” he added, willing to make a conces- 
sion to his wife’s foreign notions, “that there should be 
love on the one side, and Christian principles on the 
other. I can assure you that San Giacinto is full of love, 
and as for Flavia, my dear, has she not been educated 
by you?” 

“ As for Flavia’s Christian principles, my dear Lotario, 
I only hope they may suffice for her married life. She is 
a terrible child to have at home. But San Giacinto looks 
like a determined man. I shall never forget his kindness 
in searching for Faustina last night. He was devotion 
itself, and I should not have been surprised had he 
wished to marry her instead.” 

“ That exquisite creature is reserved for a young friend 
of ours, Guendalina. Do me the favour never to speak 
of her marrying any one else.” 

The princess was silent for a moment, and then began 
to make a series of inquiries concerning the proposed 
bridegroom, which it is unnecessary to recount. 

“And now we will send for Flavia,” said Montevar- 
chi, at last. 

“Would it not be best that I should tell her ?” asked 
his wife. 

“My dear,” he replied sternly, “when matters of grave 
importance have been decided it is the duty of the head 
of the house to communicate the decision to the persons 
concerned.” 

So Flavia was sent for, and appeared shortly, her 
pretty face and wicked black eyes expressing both sur- 
prise and anticipation. She was almost as dark as San 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


109 


Giacinto himself, though of a very different type. Her 
small nose had an upward turn which disturbed her 
mother’s ideas of the fitness of things, and her thick 
black hair waved naturally over her forehead. Her figure 
was graceful and her movements quick and spontaneous. 
The redness of her lips showed a strong vitality, which 
was further confirmed by the singular brightness of her 
eyes. She was no beauty, especially in a land where the 
dark complexion predominates, but she was very pretty 
and possessed something of that mysterious quality 
which charms without exciting direct admiration. 

“Flavia,” said her father, addressing her in solemn 
tones, “you are to be married, my dear child. I have 
sent for you at once, because there was no time to be 
lost, seeing that the wedding must take place before the 
beginning of Advent. The news will probably give you 
pleasure, but I trust you will reflect upon the solemnity 
of such engagements and lay aside ” 

“Would you mind telling me the name of my hus- 
band?” inquired Flavia, interrupting the paternal lec- 
ture. 

“The man I have selected for my son-in-law is one 
whom all women would justly envy you, were it not that 
envy is an atrocious sin, and one which I trust you will 
henceforth endeavour ” 

“ To drown, crush out and stamp upon in the pursuit 
of true Christian principles, ” said Flavia with a laugh. 
“I know all about envy. It is one of the seven deadlies. 
I can tell you them all, if you like.” 

“ Flavia, I am amazed ! ” cried the princess, severely. 

“ I had not expected this conduct of my daughter, ” 
said Montevarchi. “ And though I am at present obliged 
to overlook it, I can certainly not consider it pardonable. 
You will listen with becoming modesty and respect to 
what I have to say.” 

“I am all modesty, respect and attention — but I 
would like to know his name, papa — please consider 
that pardonable ! ” 

“ I do not know why I should not tell you that, and I 
shall certainly give you all such information concerning 
him as it is proper that you should receive. The fact 
that he is a widower need not surprise you, for in the 


110 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


inscrutable ways of Providence some men are deprived 
of their wives sooner than others. Nor should his age 
appear to you in the light of an obstacle — indeed there 
are no obstacles ” 

“A widower — old — probably bald — I can see him 
already. Is he fat, papa? ” 

‘^He approaches the gigantic; but as I have often told 
you, Plavia, the qualities a wise father should seek in 
choosing a husband for his child are not dependent upon 
outward ” 

^‘For heaven’s sake, mamma,” cried Flavia, “tell me 
the creature’s name ! ” 

“The Marchese di San Giacinto — let your father 
speak, and do not interrupt him.” 

“While you both insist on interrupting me,” said 
Montevarchi, “it is impossible for me to express my- 
self.” 

“ I wish it were ! ” observed Flavia, under her breath. 
“You are speaking of the Saracinesca cousin, San Gia- 
cinto? Not so bad after all.” 

“It is very unbecoming in a young girl to speak of 
men by their last names ” 

“Giovanni, then. Shall I call him Giovanni?” 

“Flavia! ” exclaimed the princess. “How can you be 
so undutiful! You should speak of him as the Marchese 
di San Giacinto.” 

“ Silence ! ” cried the prince. “ I will not be inter- 
rupted! The Marchese di San Giacinto will call to-mor- 
row, after breakfast, and will pay his respects to you. 
You will receive him in a proper spirit.” 

“Yes, papa,” replied Flavia, suddenly growing meek, 
and folding her hands submissively. 

“He has behaved with unexampled liberality,” con- 
tinued Montevarchi, “ and I need hardly say that as the 
honour of our house was concerned I have not allowed 
myself to be outdone. Since you refuse to listen to the 
words of fatherly instruction which it is natural I should 
speak on this occasion, you will at least remember that 
your future husband is entirely such a man as I would 
have chosen, that he is a Saracinesca, as well as a rich 
man, and that he has been accustomed in the women of 
his family to a greater refinement of manner than you 


SANT’ ILAEIO. Ill 

generally think fit to exhibit in the presence of your 
father.’’ 

“Yes, papa. May I go, now?” 

“ If your conscience will permit you to retire without 
a word of gratitude to your parents, who in spite of the 
extreme singularities of your behaviour have at last 
provided you with a suitable husband; if, I say, you are 
capable of such ingratitude, then, Flavia, you may cer- 
tainly go.” 

“ I was going to say, papa, that I thank you very much 
for my husband, and mamma, too.” 

Thereupon she kissed her father’s and her mother’s 
hands with great reverence and turned to leave the 
room. Her gravity forsook her, however, before she 
reached the door. 

“ Evviva ! Hurrah ! ” she cried, suddenly skipping 
across the intervening space and snapping her small 
fingers like a pair of castanets. “Evviva! Married at 
last ! Hurrah 1 ” And with this parting salute she dis- 
appeared. 

When she was gone, her father and mother looked at 
each other, as they had looked many times before in the 
course of Flavia’ s life. They had found little difficulty 
in bringing up their other children, but Flavia was a mys- 
tery to them both. The princess would have understood 
well enough a thorough English girl, full of life and 
animal spirits, though shy and timid in the world, as the 
elderly lady had herself been in her youth. But Flavia’s 
character was incomprehensible to her northern soul. 
Montevarchi understood the girl better, but loved her 
even less. What seemed odd in her to his wife, to him 
seemed vulgar and ill-bred, for he would have had her 
like the rest, silent and respectful in his presence, and 
ill awe of him as the head of the house, if not in fact, at 
least in manner. But Flavia’s behaviour was in the eyes 
of Komans a very serious objection to her as a wife for 
any of their sons, for in their view moral worth was 
necessarily accompanied by outward gravity and deco- 
rum, and a light manner could only be the visible sign 
of a giddy heart. 

“ If only he does not find out what she is like ! ” 
claimed the princess at last. 


ex- 


112 


sant’ ilakio. 


“ I devoutly trust that heaven in its mercy may avert 
such a catastrophe from our house/’ replied Monte varchi, 
who, however, seemed to be occupied in adding together 
certain sums upon his fingers. 

San Giacinto understood Flavia better than either of 
her parents; and altliough his marriage with her was 
before all things a part of his j)lan for furthering his 
worldly interests, it must be confessed that he had a 
stronger liking for the girl tlian her father would have 
considered indispensable in such affairs. The matter 
was decided at once, and in a few days the preliminaries 
were settled between the lawyers, while Flavia exerted 
the utmost pressure possible upon the parental purse in 
the question of the trousseau. 

It may seem strange that at the time when all Eome 
was convulsed by an internal revolution, and when the 
temporal power appeared to be in very great danger, 
Montevarchi and San Giacinto should have been able to 
discuss so coolly the conditions of the marriage, and even 
to fix the wedding day. The only possible explanation 
of this fact is that neither of them believed in the revo- 
lution at all. It is a noticeable characteristic of people 
who are fond of money that they do not readily believe 
in any great changes. They are indeed the most conser- 
vative of men, and will count their profits at moments 
of peril with a coolness which would do honour to veteran 
soldiers. Those who possess money put their faith in 
money and give no credence to rumours of revolution- 
which are not backed by cash. Once or twice in history 
they have been wrong, but it must be confessed that they 
have very generally been right. 

As for San Giacinto, his own interests were infinitely 
more absorbing to his attention than those of the world 
at large, and being a man of uncommonly steady nerves, 
it seems probable that he would have calmly pursued his 
course in the midst of much greater disturbances than 
those which affected Eome at that time. 


sant’ ilario. 


113 


CHAPTER VIII. 

When Anastase Gouache was at last relieved from 
duty and went home in the gray dawn of the twenty- 
third, he lay down to rest expecting to reflect upon the 
events of the night. The last twelve hours had been the 
most eventful of his life ; indeed less than that time had 
elapsed since he had bid farewell to Faustina in the 
drawing-room of the Palazzo Saraciiiesca, and yet the 
events which had occurred in that short space had done 
much towards making him another man. The change 
had begun two years earlier, and had progressed slowly 
until it was completed all at once by a chain of unfore- 
seen circumstances. He realised the fact, and as this 
change was not disagreeable to him he set himself to 
think about it. Instead of reviewing what had hap- 
pened, however, he did what was much more natural in 
his case, he turned upon his pillow and fell fast asleep. 
He was younger than his years, though he counted less 
than thirty, and his happy nature had not yet formed that 
horrible habit of wakefulness which will not yield even 
to bodily fatigue. He lay down and slept like a boy, 
disturbed by no dreams and troubled by no shadowy 
revival of dangers or emotions past. 

He had placed a gulf between himself^ and his former 
life. What had passed between him and Faustina, might 
under other circumstances have become but a romantic 
episode in the past, to be thought of with a certain ten- 
der regret, half fatuous, half genuine, whenever the 
moonlight chanced to cast the right shadow and the 
artist’s mind was in the contemplative mood. The pecul- 
iar smell of broken masonry, when it is a little damp, 
would recall the impression, perhaps ; an old wall knocked 
to pieces by builders would, through his nostrils, bring 
vividly before him that midnight meeting amid the ruins 
of the barracks, just as the savour of a certain truffle 
might bring back the memory of a supper at Voisin’s, or 
as, twenty years hence, the pasty grittiness of rough maize 
bread would make him remember the days when he was 
chasing brigands in the Samnite hills. But this was not 

I 


114 


sant’ ilario. 


to be the case this time. There was more matter for 
reminiscence than a ray of moonlight on a fair face, or 
the smell of crumbling mortar. 

There was a deep and sincere devotion on both sides, 
in two persons both singularly capable of sincerity, and 
both foresaw that the result of this love could never be 
indifference. The end could only be exceeding happiness, 
or mortal sorrow. Anastase and Faustina were not only 
themselves in earnest; each knew instinctively that the 
other would be faithful, a condition extremely rare in 
ordinary cases. Each recognised that the obstacles were 
enormous, but neither doubted for a moment that means 
would be found to overcome them. 

In some countries the marriage of these two would 
have been a simple matter enough. A man of the world, 
honourable, successful, beginning to be famous, pos- 
sessed of some fortune, might aspire to marry any one he 
pleased in lands where it is not a disgrace to have ac- 
quired the means of subsistence by one’s own talent and 
industry. Artists and poets have sometimes made what 
are called great marriages. But in Borne, twenty years 
^ ago, things were very different. It is enough to consider 
the way in which Montevarchi arranged to dispose of his 
daughter Flavia to understand the light in which he 
would have regarded Faustina’s marriage with Anastase 
Gouache. The very name of Gouache would have raised 
a laugh in the Montevarchi household had any one sug- 
gested that a Woman of that traditionally correct race 
could ever make it her own. There were persons in 
Borne, indeed, who might have considered the matter 
more leniently. Corona Sant’ Ilario was one of these; 
but her husband and father-in-law would have opened 
their eyes as wide as old Lotario Montevarchi himself, 
had the match been discussed before them. Their patri- 
archally exclusive souls would have been shocked and 
the dear fabric of their inborn prejudices shaken to its 
deepest foundations. It was bad enough, from the point 
of view of potential matrimony, to earn money, even if 
one had the right to prefix “Don” to one’s baptismal 
name. But to be no Don and to receive coin for one’s 
labour was a far more insurmountable barrier against 
intermarriage with the patriarchs than hereditary mad- 
.ness, tootliless old age, leprosy, or lack of money. 


/, 

/' 


/ 



/ / 
/ 




SANT’ ILAHIO. 


115 


Gonache had acquired enough knowledge of Eoman 
life to understand this, and nothing short of physical 
exhaustion would have prevented his spending his leisure 
in considering the means of overcoming such stupendous 
difficulties. When he awoke his situation presented 
itself clearly enough to his mind, however, and occupied 
his thoughts throughout the remainder of the day. Owing 
to the insurrection his departure was delayed for twenty- 
four hours, and his duty was likely to keep him busily 
engaged during the short time that remained to him. The 
city was in a state of siege and there would be a per- 
petual service of patrols, sentries and general main- 
tenance of order. The performance of labours almost 
mechanical left him plenty of time for reflection, though 
he found it hard to spare a moment in which to see any 
of his friends. 

He was very anxious to meet the Princess Sant’ Ilario, 
whose conduct on the previous night had seriously 
alarmed him. It was to her that he looked for assist- 
ance in his troubles and the consciousness that she was 
angry with him was a chief source of distress. In the 
course of the few words he had exchanged with her, she 
had made it sufficiently clear to him that although she 
disapproved in principle of his attachment to Faustina, 
she would do nothing to hinder his marriage if he should 
be able to overcome the obstinacy of the girl’s parents. 
He was at first at a loss to explain her severity to him 
when she had left her house to take Faustina home. 
Being wholly innocent of any share in the latter’s mad 
course, it did not at first enter his mind that Corona 
could attribute to him any blame in the matter. On the 
contrary, he knew that if the girl’s visit to the ruined 
barracks remained a secret, this would be owing quite 
as much to his own discretion and presence of mind as 
to the princess’s willingness to help him. Hot a little, 
too, was due to good luck, since the least difference in the 
course of events must have led to immediate discovery. ' 

A little thought led him to a conclusion which 
wounded his pride while it explained Corona’s behav- 
iour. It was evident that she had believed in a clandes- 
tine meeting, prearranged between the lovers at the 
instigation of Gouache himself, and she had probably 


116 


sant’ ilario. 


supposed this meeting to be only the preliminary to a 
runaway match. How, indeed, could Faustina have 
expected to escape observation, even had there been no 
revolution in Eome, that night? Corona clearly thought 
that the girl had never intended to come back, that 
Gouache had devised means for their departure, and that 
Faustina had believed the elopement possible in the face 
of the insurrection. Anastase, on finding himself in the 
small hours of the morning with Faustina on his hands 
and knowing that discovery must follow soon after day- 
break, had boldly brought her to the Palazzo Saracin- 
esca and had demanded Corona’s assistance. 

As the artist thought the matter over, he became more 
and more convinced that he had understood the prin- 
cess’s conduct, and the reflection made him redden with 
shame and anger. He determined to seize the first 
moment that presented itself for an explanation with 
the woman who had wronged him. He unexpectedly 
found himself at liberty towards five o’clock in the 
afternoon and made haste at once to reach the Palazzo 
Saracinesca. Knowing that no one would be allowed to 
be in the streets after dark, he felt sure of finding Corona 
without visitors, and expected the most favourable 
opportunity for talking over the subject which distressed 
him. 

After waiting several minutes in one of the outer halls 
he was ushered in, and to his extreme annoyance found 
himself in the midst of a family party. He had not 
counted upon the presence of the men of the household, 
and the fact that the baby was also present did not facili- 
tate matters. Old Saracinesca greeted him warmly; 
Sant’ Ilario looked grave; Corona herself looked up from 
her game with little Orsino, nodded and uttered a word 
of recognition, and then returned to her occupation. 

Conversation under these circumstances was mani 
festly impossible, and Gouache wished he had not had 
the unlucky idea of calling. There was nothing to be 
done, however, but to put on a brave face and make the 
best of it. 

“Well, Monsieur Gouache,” inquired the old prince, 
“and how did you spend the night? ” 

He could scarcely have asked a question better cal- 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


117 


culated to disturb the composure of every one present 
except the baby. Anastase could not help looking at 
Corona, who looked instinctively at her husband, while 
the latter gazed at Gouache, wondering what he would 
say. All three turned a shade paler, and during a very 
few seconds there was an awkward silence. 

‘‘I spent the night very uncomfortably,” replied Anas- 
tase, after hesitating a little. “We were driven from 
pillar to post, repelling attacks, doing sentry duty, 
clearing the streets, marching and countermarching. It 
was daylight when I was relieved.” 

“ Indeed ! ” exclaimed Sant’ Ilario. “ I had supposed 
that you had remained all night at the Porta San Paolo. 
But there are many contradictory accounts. I was in 
some anxiety until T was assured that you had not been 
blown up in that infernal plot.” 

Gouache was on the point of asking who had told 
Giovanni that he had escaped, but fortunately checked 
himself, and endeavoured to turn the conversation to the 
disaster at the barracks. Thereupon old Saracinesca, 
whose blood was roused by the atrocity, delivered a 
terrible anathema against the murderous wretches who 
had ruined the building, and expressed himself in favour 
of burning them alive, a fate, indeed, far too good for 
them. Anastase profited by the old gentleman’s elo- 
quence to make advances to the baby. Little Orsino, 
however, struck him a vigorous blow in the face with his 
tiny fist and yelled lustily. 

“ He does not like strangers, ” remarked Corona, coldly. 
She rose with the child in her arms and moved towards 
the door, Gouache following her with the intention of 
opening it for her to go out. The prince was still 
thundering out curses against the conspirators, and 
Anastase attempted to say a word unobserved as Corona 
passed him. J 

“Will you not give me a hearing? ” he asked in a low 
tone, accompanying his words with an imploring look. 

Corona raised her eyebrows slightly as though sur- 
prised, but his expression of genuine contrition softened 
her heart a little and rendered her answer perhaps a trifle 
less unkind than she had meant it to be. 

“You should be satisfied — since I keep your secret,” 
she said, anrl passed quickly out. 


118 


sant’ ilario. 


When Gouache turned after closing the door he was 
aware that Sant’ Ilario had been watching him, by the 
fixed way in which he was now looking in another 
direction. The Zouave wished more and more fervently 
that he had not come to the house, but resolved to pro- 
long his visit in the hope that Corona might return. 
Sant’ Ilario was unaccountably silent, but his father 
kept up a lively conversation, needing only an occasional 
remark from Gouache to give a fillip to his eloquence. 

This situation continued during nearly half an hour, 
at the end of which time Anastase gave up all hope of 
seeing Corona again. The two men evidently did not 
expect her to return, for they had made themselves 
comfortable and had lighted their cigarettes. 

^‘Good-bye, Monsieur Gouache,” said the old prince, 
cordially shaking him by the hand. “ I hope we shall 
see you back again alive and well in a few days.” 

While he was speaking Giovanni had rung the bell for 
the servant to show the visitor out, an insignificant 
action, destined to produce a rather singular result. 
Sant’ Ilario himself, feeling that after all he might never 
see Gouache alive again, repented a little of his coldness, 
and while the latter stood ready to go, detained him with 
a question as to his destination on leaving the city. 
This resulted in a lively discussion of Garibaldi’s prob- 
able movements, which lasted several minutes. 

Corona in the meantime had taken Orsino back to his 
nurse, and had bidden her maid let her know when the 
visitor in the drawing-room was gone. The woman went 
to the hall, and when Giovanni rang the bell, returned 
to inform her mistress of the fact, supposing that Gouache 
would go at once. Corona waited a few minutes, and 
then went back to the sitting-room, which was at the 
end of the long suite of apartments. The result was 
that she met Anastase in one of the rooms on his way 
out, preceded by the footman, who went on towards the 
hall after his mistress had passed. Corona and Gouache 
were left face to face and quite alone in the huge dim 
drawing-room. Gouache had found his opportunity and 
did not hesitate. 

‘‘Madame,” he said, “I beg your pardon for trespass- 
ing on your time, but I have a serious word to say. I 


sant’ ilaeio. 


119 


am going to the frontier and am as likely to be killed as 
any one else. On the faith of a man who may be dead 
to-morrow, I am wholly innocent of what happened last 
night. If I come back I will prove it to you some day. 
If not, will you believe me, and not think of me 
unkindly?^’ 

Corona hesitated and stood leaning against the heavy 
curtain of a window for a moment. Though the room 
was very dim, she could see tlie honest look in the young 
man’s eyes and she hesitated before she answered. She 
had heard that day that two of her acquaintances had 
fallen fighting against the Garibaldians and she knew 
that Anastase was speaking of a very near possibility 
when he talked of being killed. There were many 
chances that he was telling the truth, and she felt how 
deeply she should regret her unbelief if he should indeed 
meet his fate before they met again. 

“ You tell me a strange thing,” she said at last. “ You 
ask me to believe that this poor girl, of her own free 
will and out of love for you, followed you out of this 
room last night into the midst of a revolution. It is a 
hard thing to believe ” 

“And yet I implore you to believe it, princess. A 
man who should love her less than I, would be the basest 
of men to speak thus of her love. God knows, if things 
had been otherwise, I would not have let you know. But 
was there any other way of taking her home? Did I 
not do the only thing that was at all possible to keep 
last night’s doings a secret? I love her to such a point 
that I glory in her love for me. If I could have shielded 
her last night by giving up my life, you know that I 
would have ended my existence that very moment. It 
would have done no good. I had to confide in some one, 
and you, who knew half my secret, since I had told you 
I loved her, were the only person who could be allowed 
to guess the remainder. If it could profit her that you 
should think me a villain, you might think me so — even 
you, whom I reverence beyond all women save her. But 
to let you think so would be to degrade her, and that 
you shall not do. You shall not think that she has been 
so foolish as to pin her faith on a man who would lead 
her to destruction — ah ! if I loved her less I could tell 
you better what I mean.” 


120 


sant’ ilario. 


Corona was moved by his sincerity, if not by his 
arguments. She saw all the strangeness of the situa- 
tion; how he had been forced to confide in some one, 
and how it seemed better in his eyes that she should 
know how Faustina had really behaved, than think that 
the young girl had agreed to a premeditated meeting. 
She was touched and her heart relented. 

“I believe you,’^ she said. “Forgive me if I have 
wronged you.” 

“ Thank you, thank you, dear princess ! ” cried Gouache, 
taking her hand and touching it with his lips. “ I can 
never thank you as I would. And now, good-bye — I 
am going. Will you give me your blessing, as my mother 
would?” He smiled, as he recalled the conversation of 
the previous evening. 

“Good-bye,” answered Corona. “May all blessings 
go with you.” He turned away and she stood a moment 
looking after him as he disappeared in the gloom. 

She was sorry for him in her heart and repented a 
little of having treated him so harshly. And yet, as 
soon as he was gone she began to doubt again, wonder- 
ing vaguely whether she had not been deceived. There 
was an odd fascination about the soldier-artist which 
somehow influenced her in his favour when he was pres- 
ent, and of which she was not conscious until he was out 
of her sight. Now that she was alone, she found herself 
considering how this peculiar charm which he possessed 
would be likely to affect a young girl like Faustina, and 
she was obliged to acknowledge that it would account 
well enough for the latter’s foolish doings. She could 
not look into Gouache’s eyes and doubt what he said, but 
she found it hard afterwards to explain the faith she 
put in him. 

She was roused from her short reflection by her hus- 
band who, without being observed by her, had come to 
her side. Seeing that she did not return to the sitting- 
room when Gouache was gone he had come in search of 
her, and by the merest chance had overheard the last 
words which had passed between her and Anastase, and 
had seen how the latter fervently kissed her hand. The 
phrase in which she had wished him good luck rang 
unpleasantly in his ears and startled the inmost sensi- 


sant’ ilario. 


121 


bilities of his nature. He remembered how she had 
blessed him once, in her calm, gentle way, on that 
memorable night of the Frangipani ball nearly three 
years before, and there was a similarity between the 
words she had used then and the simple expression which 
had now fallen from her lips. 

Giovanni stood beside her now and laid his hand upon 
her arm. It was not his nature to break out suddenly 
as his father did, when anything occurred to disturb his 
peace of mind. The Spanish blood he had inherited 
from his mother had imparted a profound reserve to his 
character, which gave it depth rather than coldness. It 
was hard for him to speak out violently when under the 
influence of emotion, but this very difiiculty of flnding 
words and his aversion to using them made him more 
sincere, more enduring and less forgiving than other men. 
He could wait long before he gave vent to his feelings, 
but they neither grew cool nor dull for the waiting. He 
detested concealment and secrecy more than most people, 
but his disinclination to speak of any matter until he 
was sure of it had given him the reputation of being 
both reticent and calculating. Giovanni now no longer 
concealed from himself the fact that he was annoyed by 
what was passing, but he denied, even in his heart, that 
he was jealous. To doubt Corona would be to upset the 
whole fabric of his existence, which he had founded upon 
her love and which had been built up to such great pro- 
portions during the past three years. His first impulse 
was to ask an explanation, and it carried him just far 
enough to lay his hand on his wife’s arm, when it was 
checked by a multitude of reflections and unconscious 
arguments which altogether changed his determination, 
thought he was gone,” he said, quietly enough. 

^‘So did I,” replied Corona, in a cooler tone than she 
generally used in speaking to her husband. 

She, too, was annoyed, for she suspected that Giovanni 
had been watching her; and since, on the previous even- 
ing he had promised to trust her altogether in this affair, 
she looked upon his coming almost in the light of an 
infringement upon the treaty, and resented it accord- 
ingly. She did not reflect that it was unlikely that 
Giovanni should expect her to try to meet Gouache on 


122 


SANT’ ILAllIO. 


his way out, and would therefore not think of lying in. 
wait tor her. His accidental coining seemed premedh 
tated. He, on his side, had noticed her marked coldness 
to Anastase in the sitting-room and thought it contrasted 
very strangely with the over-friendly parting of which 
he had chanced to be a witness. Corona, too, knew very 
well that the last words spoken were capable of misin- 
terpretation, and as she had no intention of telling her 
husband Faustina’s story at present she saw no way of 
clearing up the situation, and therefore prepared to 
ignore it altogether. 

They turned together and walked slowly back in the 
direction of the sitting-room, neither speaking a word 
until they had almost reached the door. Then Giovanni 
stopped and looked at his wife. 

“Is it part of last night’s secret?” he asked, almost 
indifferently. 

“Yes,” answered Corona. “ What could you suppose 
it was? I met him by accident and we exchanged a few 
words.” 

“ 1 know. I heard you say good-bye. I confess I was 
surprised. I thought you meant to be rude to him when 
we were all together, but I was mistaken. I hope your 
blessing will profit him, my dear ! ” He spoke quite 
naturally and without effort. 

“I hope so too,” returned Corona. “You might have 
added yours, since you were present.” 

“To tell the truth,” said Giovanni, with a short laugh, 
“I fancy it might not have been so acceptable.” 

“ You talk very strangely, Giovanni ! ” 

“Do I? It seems to me quite natural. Shall we go 
into the sitting-room?” 

“ Giovanni — you promised to trust me last night, and 
I promised to explain everything to you some day. You 
must keep your promise wholly or not at all.” 

“ Certainly,” answered Sant’ Hario, opening the door for 
his wife and thus forcing the conversation to end suddenly, 
since old Saracinesca must now hear whatever was said. 

He would not allow the situation to last, for fear lest 
he should say something of which he might repent, for 
in spite of his words he did not wish to seem suspicious. 
Unfortunately, Corona’s evident annoyance at having 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


i23 


been overheard did more to strengthen the feeling of 
resentment which was growing in him than what he had 
heard and seen a few moments earlier. The way in 
which she had reproached him with not adding his bless- 
ing to hers showed plainly enough, he thought, that she 
was angry at what had occurred. They both entered the 
room, but before they had been long together Giovanni 
left his wife and father and retired to his own room 
under pretext of writing letters until dinner-time. 

When he was alone, the situation presented itself to 
his mind in a very disagreeable light. Corona’s assur- 
ance that the mystery was a harmless one seemed wholly 
inadequate to account for her meeting with Gouache and 
for her kind treatment of him, especially after she had 
shown herself so evidently cold to him in the presence 
of the others. Either Giovanni was a very silly fellow, 
or he was being deceived as no man was ever deceived 
before. Either conclusion was exasperating. He asked 
himself whether he were such a fool as to invent a mis- 
construction upon occurrences which to any one else 
would have seemed void of any importance whatsoever; 
and his heart answered that if he were indeed so sense- 
less he must have lost his intelligence very recently. 
On the other hand to suspect Corona of actually enter- 
taining a secret passion for Gouache was an hypothesis 
which seemed too monstrous to be discussed. He sat 
down to think about it, and was suddenly startled by the 
host of little circumstances which all at once detached 
themselves from the hazy past and stood out in condem- 
nation of his wife. Gouache, as he himself had acknowl- 
edged, had long worshipped the princess in a respectful, 
almost reverential way. He had taken every occasion 
of talking with her, and had expressed even by his 
outward manner a degree of devotion he never manifested 
to other women. Giovanni was now aware that for some 
time past, even as far back as the previous winter, he 
had almost unconsciously watched Corona and Anastase 
when they were together. Nothing in her conduct had 
excited his suspicions in the least, but he had certainly 
suspected that Gouache was a little inclined to idolise 
her, and had laughed to himself more than once at the idea 
of the French artist’s hopeless passion, with something of 


124 


sant' ilario. 


that careless satisfaction a man feels who sees a less 
favoured mortal in dangerous proximity to a flame which 
burns only for himself. It was rather a contemptible 
amusement, and Giovanni had never indulged in it very 
long. He liked Gouache, and, if anything^ pitied him 
for his hopeless passion. Corona treated the Zouave in 
her grand, quiet way, which had an air of protection 
with it, and Giovanni would have scoffed at the thought 
that she cared for the man. Nevertheless, now that 
matters had taken such a strange turn, he recollected 
with surprise that Gouache was undeniably the one of 
all their acquaintance who most consistently followed 
Corona wherever \they met. The young man was a 
favourite in society. His great talent, his modesty, and 
above all what people were pleased to describe as his 
harmlessness, made everybody like him. He went 
everywhere, and his opportunities of meeting the prin- 
cess were almost numberless. G;iovanni had certainly 
watched him v^ery often, though he was hardly conscious 
of having bestowed so much attention on the French 
artist-soldier^ that he never failed to glance at his wife 
when Anastase was mentioned. 

Now, and all at once, a hundred details rushed to his 
recollection, and he was staggered by the vista of inci- 
dents that rose before his mind. Within the last twenty- 
four hours, especially, the evidence had assumed terrible 
proportions. In the first place there had been that scene 
in the drawing-room, enacted quietly enough and in a 
corner, while there were twenty persons present, but 
with the coolness of two people of the world who know 
what surprising things may be done unobserved in a 
room full of people. If Anastase had kissed Corona’s 
hand a little differently, and with the evident intention 
of being seen, the action would have been natural. But 
there was a look in Gouache’s face which Giovanni 
remembered, and an expression of kindness in Corona’s 
eyes that he had not forgotten ; above all they had both 
seemed as though they were sure that no one was watch- 
ing them. Indeed, Sant’ Ilario now asked himself liow 
he had chanced to see what passed, and the only answer 
was that he generally watched them when they were 
together. This was a revelation to himself, and told 


sant’ ilario. 


125 


much. Then there was her midnight expedition with 
Gouache, a far more serious matter. After all, he had 
only Corona’s own assurance that Faustina Montevarchi 
had been in any way concerned in that extraordinary 
piece of rashness. He must indeed have had faith in 
his wife to p^-ss over such conduct without a word of 
explanation. Next came the events of that very after- 
noon. Corona had been rude to Gouache, had then sud- 
denly left the room, and in passing out had exchanged 
a few words with him in a low tone. She had met him 
again by accident, if it had been an accident, and fancying 
herself unseen had behaved very differently to the young 
man. There had been a parting which savoured unpleas- 
antly of the affectionate, and which was certainly some- 
thing more than merely friendly. Lastly, Corona had 
evidently been annoyed at Giovanni’s appearance, a fact 
which seemed to conclude the whole argument with a 
terrible certainty. 

Finding himself face to'Tace with a conclusion which 
threatened to destroy his* happiness altogether, Giovanni 
started up from his chair 'and began to walk^ backwards 
and forwards in the room, pausing a moment each time 
he turned, as though to gather strength, or to shake off 
an evil thought. In the light his present reflections 
an explanation seemed inevitable, but when he thought 
of that he saw too clearly that any explanation must 
begin by his accusing his wife, and he knew that if he 
accused her justly, it would only end in a denial from 
her. What woman, however guilty, would not deny her 
guilt when charged with it. What man either, where 
love was concerned? Giovanni laughed bitterly, then 
turned pale and sat down again. To accuse Corona of 
loving Gouache ! It was too monstrous to be believed. 
And yet — what did all those doings mean? There must 
be a reason for them. If he called her and told her what 
he felt, and if she were innocent, she would tell him all, 
everything would be explained, and he would doubtless 
see that all this damning evidence was no more than the 
natural outward appearance of perfectly harmless cir- 
cumstances of which he knew nothing. Ay, but if they 
were harmless, why should she implore him to ask no 
questions? Because the honour of some one else was 


126 


sant’ ilario. 


concerned, of course. But was he, Giovanni Saracin- 
esca, not to be trusted with the keeping of that other 
person’s honour as well as Corona herself? Had they 
ever had secrets from each other? Would it not have 
been simpler for her to trust him with the story, if she 
was innocent, than to be silent and ask him to trust her 
motives? Far simpler, of course. And then, if only a 
third person’s feelings were at stake, what necessity had 
there been for such a sentimental parting? She had 
given Gouache a blessing very like the one she had given 
Giovanni. Worst of all, were not the circumstances the 
same, the very same? 

Giovanni remembered the Frangipani ball. At that 
time Corona was married to Astrardente, who had died 
a few days afterwards. Giovanni had that night told 
Corona that he loved her, in very passionate terms. 
She had silenced him, and he had behaved like a gentle- 
man, for he had asked her pardon for what he had done. 
She had forgiven him, and to show that she bore no 
malice had spoken a kind of benediction — a prayer that 
all might be well with him. He knew now that she had 
loved him even then when she repelled him. 

And now that she was married to Giovanni, another 
had come, and had talked with her, and exchanged words 
in a low tone even as he himself had once done. And 
she had treated this man roughly before her husband, 
and presently afterwards had allowed him to kiss her 
hand and had sent him away saying that she forgave him 
— just as she had formerly forgiven Giovanni — and 
praying that all blessings might go with him. Why 
was it not possible that she loved this man, too? Be- 
cause she was so grandly beautiful, and dark and calm, 
and had such a noble fearlessness in her eyes? Other 
women had been beautiful and had deceived wiser men 
than Giovanni, and had fallen. Beauty was no argument 
for the defence, nor brave eyes, nor the magnificent dig- 
nity of movement and speech — nor words either, for 
that matter. 

Suspense was agony, and yet a twofold horror seemed 
the only issue, the one inevitable, the other possible. 
First, to accuse this woman whom he loved so dearly, 
and then, perhaps, to hear her deny the charge boldly 


SANT’ ILARTO. 


127 


and yet refuse all explanation. Once more Giovanni 
rose from his deep chair and paced his room with regular 
strides, though he scarcely saw the carpet under his feet, 
nor realised any longer where he was. At last he stopped 
and laughed. The sound was strange and false, as when 
a man tries to be merry who feels no mirth. 

He was making a desperate effort to shake off this 
nightmare that beset him, to say to himself that he was 
but a fool, and that there was no cause for all this suffer- 
ing which he was inflicting on his heart, nor for all these 
questions he had been asking of his intelligence. It was 
surely not true ! He would laugh now, would laugh 
heartily within the next half hour with Corona herself, 
at the mere thought of supposing that she could love 
Gouache, Gouache, a painter ! Gouache, a Zouave ! 
Gouache, a contemptibly good-natured, harmless little 
foreigner! — and Corona del Carmine, Huchessa d’As- 
trardente, Principessa di Sant’ Ilario, mother of all the 
Saracinesca yet to come ! It was better to laugh, truly, 
at such an absurd juxtaposition of ideas, of personalities, 
of high and low. And Giovanni laughed, but the sound 
was very harsh and died away without rousing one honest 
echo in the vaulted room. 

Had Corona seen his face at that moment, or had she 
guessed what was passing in his mind, she would have 
sacrificed Faustina’s secret ten times over rather than 
let Giovanni suffer a moment longer as he was suffering 
now. But Corona had no idea that he could put such a 
construction upon her doings. He had shown her noth- 
ing of what he felt, except perhaps a slight annoyance 
at not being put in possession of the secret. It was 
natural, she thought, that he should be a little out of 
temper, but as she saw no way of remedying the trouble 
except by exposing to him the innocent girl whom she 
had undertaken to protect, she held her peace and 
trusted that her husband’s displeasure would soon be 
past. Had there been more time for refiection on the 
previous evening, in the interval between her learning 
from the porter that Giovanni knew of her absence, and 
her being confronted with Giovanni himself, she might 
have resolved to act differently ; but having once made 
up her mind that he ought not to know tlie truth for the 



3 


128 


SANT’ TLAr.TO. 


present, opposition only strengthened her determination. 
There was nothing wrong in the course she was pursu- 
ing, or her conscience would have spoken and bidden her 
speak out. Her nature was too like Giovanni’s own, 
proud, reserved, and outwardly cold, to yield any point 
easily. It was her instinct, like his, to be silent rather 
than to speak, and to weigh considerations before acting 
upon them. This very similarity of temper in the two 
rendered it certain that if they were ever opposed to each 
other the struggle would be a serious one. They were 
both too strong to lead a life of petty quarrelling; if 
they ceased to live in perfect harmony they were only 
too sure to come to open hostility. There is nothing 
which will wound pride and raise anger so inevitably as 
finding unexpected but determined opposition in those 
who very closely resemble ourselves. In such a case a 
man cannot fall back upon the comfortable alternative 
of despising his enemy, since he has an intimate convic- 
tion that it would be paramount to despising himself ; 
and if he is led into a pitched battle he will find his foe 
possessed of weapons which are exactly like his own. 

Giovanni and Corona were very evenly matched, as 
nearly resembling each other as is possible for a man and 
a woman. Corona was outwardly a little the colder, 
Giovanni a little the more resentful of the two. Corona 
had learned during the years of her marriage with Astrar- 
dente to wear a mask of serene indifference, and the 
assumed habit had at last become in some degree a part 
of her nature. Giovanni, whose first impulses had 
originally been quicker than they now were, had learned 
the power of waiting by constant intercourse with his 
father, whose fiery temper seemed to snatch at trifles for 
the mere pleasure of tearing them to pieces, and did 
injustice to the generous heart he concealed under his 
rough exterior. 

Under these circumstances it was not probable that 
Sant’ Ilario would make any exhibition of his jealousy 
for some time to come. As he paced the floor of his 
room, the bitterness of his situation slowly sank from 
the surface, leaving his face calm and almost serene. 
He forced himself to look at the facts again and again, 
trying bravely to be impartial and to survey them as 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


129 


though he were the judge and not the plaintiff. He 
admitted at last that there was undoubtedly abundant 
matter for jealousy, but Corona still stood protected as 
it were by the love he bore her, a love which even her 
guilt would be unable to destroy. His love indeed, must 
outlast everything, all evil, all disgrace, and he knew it. 
He thought of that Latin poet who, writing ^to his mis- 
tress, said in the bitterness of his heart that^ough she 
were to become the best woman in the world he could 
never again respect her, but that he could not cease to 
love her, were she guilty of all crimes.^ He knew that 
if the worst turned out true that must be his case, and 
perhaps for the first time in his life he understood all 
the humanity of Catullus, and saw how a man might love 
even what he despised. 

Happily matters had not yet come to that. He knew 
that he might be deceived, and that circumstantial evi- 
dence was not always to be trusted. Even while his 
heart grew cold with the strongest and most deadly pas- 
sion of which man is capable, with jealousy which is 
cruel as the grave, the nobility of his nature rose up and 
made him see that his duty was to believe Corona inno- 
cent until she were proved unfaithful. The effort to 
quench the flame was great, though fruitless, but the 
determination to cover it and hide it from every one, even 
from Corona herself, appealed to all that was brave and 
manly in his strong character. When at last he once 
more sat down, his face betrayed no emotion, his eyes 
were quiet, his hands did not tremble. He took up a 
book and forced his attention upon the pages for nearly 
an hour without interruption. Then he dressed himself, 
and went and sat at table with his father and his wife as 
though nothing had occurred to disturb his equanimity. 

Corona supposed that he had recovered from his annoy- 
ance at not being admitted to share the secret for which 
she was unconsciously sacrificing so much. She had 
expected this result and was more than usually cheerful. 
Once old Saracinesca mentioned Gouache, but both 
Corona and Giovanni hastened to change the subject. 
This time, however, Giovanni did not look at his wife 
when the name was pronounced. Those days were over 
now. 


130 


sant’ ilario. 


CHAPTER IX. 

The excitement which had reigned in Rome for weeks 
past was destined to end almost as suddenly as it had 
begun. The events which followed the 22d of October 
have been frequently and accurately described; indeed, 
if we consider the small number of the troops engaged 
and the promptness with which a very limited body of 
men succeeded in quelling what at first appeared to be a 
formidable revolution, we are surprised at the amount of 
attention which has been accorded to the little campaign. 
The fact is that although the armies employed on both 
sides were insignificant, the questions at stake were 
enormous, and the real powers which found themselves 
confronted at Monte Rotondo and Mentana were the 
Kingdom of Italy and the French Empire. Until the 
ultimatum was presented to Italy by the French Minister 
on the 19th of October, Italy hoped to take possession 
of Rome on the pretext of restoring order after allowing 
it to be subverted by Garibaldi’s guerillas. The military 
cordon formed by the Italian army to prevent Garibaldi’s 
crossing the frontier was a mere show. The arrest of 
the leader himself, however it was intended by those 
who ordered it, turned out in effect to be a mere comedy, 
as he soon found himself at liberty and no one again 
attempted to seize him. When France interfered the 
scale turned. She asserted her determination to main- 
tain the Convention of 1864 by force of arms, and Italy 
was obliged to allow Garibaldi to be defeated, since she 
was unable to face the perils of a war with her powerful 
neighbour. If a small body of French troops had not 
entered Rome on the 30th of the month, the events 
of 1870 would have occurred three years earlier, though 
probably with different results. 

It being the object of the general commanding the 
Pope’s forces to concentrate a body of men with whom 
to meet Garibaldi, who was now advancing boldly, the 
small detachments, of which many had already been sent 
to the front, were kept back in Rome in the hope of 
getting together something like an army. Gouache’s 


131 


sant’ 


ILARIO. 


departure was accordingly delayed from day to day, and 
it was not until the early morning of the 3d of November 
that he actually quitted Eome with the whole available 
corps of Zouaves. Ten days elapsed, therefore, after 
the events last described, during which time he was 
hourly in expectation of orders to march. The service 
had become so arduous within the city that he could 
scarcely call a moment his own. It was no time to think 
of social duties, and he spent the leisure he had in trying 
to see Faustina Monte varchi as often as possible. 

This, however, was no easy matter. It was a provok- 
ing fact that his duties kept him busily occupied in the 
afternoon and evening, and that the hours he could com- 
mand fell almost always in the morning. To visit the 
Palazzo Montevarchi on any pretext whatever before 
one o’clock in the day was out of the question. He had 
not even the satisfaction of seeing Faustina drive past 
him in the Corso when she was out with her mother and 
Flavia, since they drove just at the time when he was 
occupied. Gouache told himself again and again that 
the display of ingenuity was in a measure the natural 
duty of a man in love, but the declaration did not help 
him very much. He was utterly at a loss for an expe- 
dient, and suffered keenly in being deprived of the possi- 
bility of seeing Faustina after having seen her so often 
and so intimately. A week earlier he could have borne 
it better, but now the separation was intolerable. In 
time of peace he would have disobeyed orders and thrown 
up his service for the day, no matter what the conse- 
quences turned out to be for himself ; but at the present 
moment, when every man was expected to be at his post, 
such conduct seemed dishonourable and cowardly. He 
submitted in silence, growing daily more careworn, and 
losing much of the inexhaustible gaiety which made him 
a general favourite with his comrades. 

There was but one chance of seeing Faustina, and even 
that one offered little probability of an interview. He 
knew that on Sunday mornings she sometimes went to 
church at an early hour with no one but her maid for a 
companion. Her mother and Flavia preferred to rise 
later and attended another mass. Now it chanced that 
in the year 1867, the 22d of October, the date of the 


AV 


/Vvi 

Aa 


« 


132 


sant’ ilario. 


insurrection, fell on Tuesday. Five days, therefore, 
must elapse before he could see Faustina on a Sunday, 
and if he failed to see her then he would have to wait 
another week. 

Unfortunately, Faustina’s early expeditions to church 
were by no means certain or regular, and it would be 
necessary to convey a message to her before the day 
arrived. This was no easy matter. To send anything 
through the post was out of the question, and Gouache 
knew how hard it would be to find the means of putting 
a note into her hands through a servant. Hour after 
hour he cudgelled his brains for an expedient without 
success, until the idea pursued him and made him ner- 
vous. The time approached rapidly and he had as yet 
accomplished nothing. The wildest schemes suggested 
themselves to him and were rejected as soon as he thought 
of them. He met some of his acquaintances during the 
idle hours of the morning, and it almost drove him mad 
to think that almost any one of them could see Faustina 
any day he pleased. He did what he could to obtain 
leave in the afternoon or evening, but his exertions were 
fruitless. He was a man who was trusted, and knew it, 
and the disturbed state of affairs made it necessary that 
every man should do precisely what was allotted to him, 
at the risk of causing useless complications in the effort 
to concentrate and organise the troops which was now 
going forward. At last he actually went to the Palazzo 
Montevarchi in the morning and inquired if he could see 
the princess. 

The porter replied that she was not visible, and that 
the prince had gone out. There was nothing to be done, 
and he turned to go away. Suddenly he stopped as he 
stood under the deep arch, facing the blank wall on the 
opposite side of the street. That same wall was broad 
and smooth and dark in colour. He only looked at it a 
moment, and then to excuse his hesitation in the eyes of 
the porter, he took out a cigarette, and lit it before going 
out. As he passed through the Piazza Colonna a few 
minutes later he went into a shop and bought two large 
tubes of paint with a broad brush. That night, when he 
was relieved from duty, he went back to the Palazzo 
Montevarchi. It was very late, and the streets were 


sant’ ilakio. 


133 


deserted. He stood before the great closed doors of tlie 
palace and then walked straight across the street to the 
blank wall with his paint and brush in his hands. 

On the following morning when the Montevarchi porter 
opened the gates his eyes were rejoiced by some most 
extraordinary specimens of calligraphy executed upon 
the dark stones with red paint of a glaringly vivid hue. 
The letters A. G. were drawn at least four feet high in 
the centre, and were repeated in every size at irregular 
intervals for some distance above, below, and on each 
side. The words Donienica,” Sunday, and Messa,” 
mass, were scrawled everywhere in capitals, in round- 
hand, large and small. Then to give the whole the air 
of having been designed by a street-boy, there were other 
words, such as “Viva Pio IX.,” “Viva il Papa Re,” and 
across these, in a different manner, and in green paint, 
“Viva Garibaldi,” “Morte a Antonelli,” and similar 
revolutionary sentiments. The whole, however, was so 
disposed that Gouache’s initials and the two important 
words stood out in bold relief from the rest, and could 
not fail to attract the eye. 

Of the many people who came and went that day 
through the great gate of the Palazzo Montevarchi two 
only attached any importance to the glaring scrawls on 
the opposite wall. One of these was Faustina herself, 
who saw and understood. The other was San Giacinto, 
who stared at the letters for several seconds, and then 
smiled faintly as he entered the palace. He, too, knew 
what the signs _meant, and remarked to himself that 
Gouache was an enterprising youth, but that, in the 
interest of the whole tribe of Montevarchi, it would be 
well to put a stop to his love-making as soon as possible. 
It was now Saturday afternoon and there was no time to 
be lost. 

San Giacinto made a short visit, and, on leaving, went 
immediately to the Palazzo Saracinesca. He knew that 
at four o’clock Corona would probably not yet be at home. 
This turned out to be the case, and having announced 
his intention of waiting for her return he was ushered 
into the sitting-room. As soon as the servant was gone 
he went to Corona’s writing-table and took from it a 
couple of sheets of her paper and two of her envelopes. 


134 


sant’ ilario. 


These latter were stamped with a coronet and her ini- 
tials. He folded the paper carefully and put the four 
bits into his pocket-book. He waited ten minutes, but 
no one came. Then he left the house, telling the servant 
to say that he had called and would return presently. In 
a few minutes he was at his lodgings, where he proceeded 
to write the following note. He had taken two sheets 
in case the first proved a failure : — 

“I have understood, but alas! I cannot come. Oh, 
my beloved! when shall we meet again? It seems years 
since Tuesday night — and yet I am so watched that I 
can do nothing. Some one suspects something. I am 
sure of it. A trusty person will bring you this. I love 
you always — do not doubt it, though I cannot meet you 
to-morrow.” 

San Giacinto, who had received a tolerable education 
and had conscientiously made the best of it, prided him- 
self upon his handwriting. It was small, clear, and 
delicate, like that of many strong, quiet men, whose 
nerves do not run away with their fingers. On the pres- 
ent occasion he took pains to make it even more careful 
than usual, and the result was that it looked not unlike 
the “ copperplate” handwriting a girl would learn at the 
convent, though an expert would probably have declared 
it disguised. It had been necessary, in order to deceive 
Gouache, to write the note on the paper generally used 
by women of society. As he could not get any of Faus- 
tina’s own, it seemed the next best thing to take Coro- 
na’s, since Corona was her most intimate friend. 

Gouache had told San Giacinto that he was engaged 
every afternoon, in hopes that he would in turn chance 
to mention the fact to Faustina. It was therefore pretty 
certain that Anastase would not be at home between four 
and five o’clock. San Giacinto drove to the Zouave’s 
lodgings and asked for him. If he chanced to be in, the 
note could be given to his old landlady. He was out, 
however, and San Giacinto asked to be allowed to enter 
the room on the pretext of writing a word for his friend. 
The landlady was a dull old creature, wlo had been 
warming herself with a pot of coals when San Giacinto 
rang. In answer to his request she resumed her occupa- 
tion and pointed to the door of the Zouave’s apartment. 



A 






sant’ ilario. 


135 


San Giacinto entered, and looked about him for a con- 
spicuous place in which to put the letter he had pre- 
pared. He preferred not to trust to the memory of the 
woman, who might forget to deliver it until the next 
day, especially if Gouache came home late that night, as 
was very likely. The table of the small sitting-room 
was littered with letters and papers, books and drawings, 
so that an object placed in the midst of such disorder 
would not be likely to attract Gouache’s attention. The 
door beyond was open, and showed a toilet-table in the 
adjoining chamber, which'was* indeed the bedroom. San 
Giacinto went in, and taking the note from his pocket, 
laid it on an old-fashioned pincushion before the glass. 
The thing slipped, however, and in order to fasten it 
firmly he thrust a gold pin that lay on the table through 
the letter and pinned it to the cushion in a conspicuous 
position. Then he went out and returned to the Palazzo 
Saracinesca as he had promised to do. 

In doing all this he had no intention of injuring either 
Gouache or Faustina. He perceived clearly enough that 
their love affair could not come to any good termination, 
and as his interests were now very closely bound up with 
those of the Montevarchi, it seemed wisest to break off 
the affair by any means in his power, without complicat- 
ing matters by speaking to Gouache or to Faustina’s 
father or mother. He knew enough of human nature to 
understand that Gouache would be annoyed at losing the 
chance of a meeting, and he promised himself to watch 
the two so carefully as to be able to prevent other clan- 
destine interviews during the next few days. If he could 
once sow the seeds of a quarrel between the two, he fan- 
cied it would be easy to break up the relations. Noth- 
ing makes a woman so angry as to wait for a man who 
has promised to meet her, and if he fails to come alto- 
gether her anger will probably be very serious. In the 
present case he supposed that Faustina would go to the 
church, but that Gouache, being warned that he was not 
to come, would not think of keeping the tryst. The 
scheme, if not profound, was at least likely to produce a 
good deal of trouble between the lovers. 

San Giacinto returned to the Palazzo Saracinesca, but 
he found only the old prince at home, though he pro- 


136 sant’ ilario. 

longed his visit in the hope of seeing Corona or Sant’ 
Ilario. 

“By the bye,” he said, as he and his companion sa*-, 
together in the prince’s study, “I remember that you 
were so good as to say that you would let me see those 
family papers some day. They must be very interesting 
and I would be glad to avail myself of your offer.” 

“Certainly,” replied Saracinesca. “They are in the 
Archives in a room of the library. It is rather late now. 
Do you mind waiting till to-morrow? ” 

“Not in the least, or as long as you like. To tell the 
truth, I would like to show them to my future father-in- 
law, who loves archaeology. I was talking about them 
with him yesterday. After all, however, I suppose the 
duplicates are at the Cancelleria, and we -can see them 
there.” 

“I do not know,” said the prince, carelessly, “I never 
took the trouble to inquire. There is probably some 
register of them, or something to prove that they are in 
existence.” 

“There must be, of course. Things of that importance 
would not be allowed to go unregistered, unless people 
were very indifferent in those days.” 

“ It is possible that there are no duplicates. It may 
be that there is only an official notice of the deed giving 
the heads of the agreement. You see it was a friendly 
arrangement, and there was supposed to be no probability 
whatever that your great-grandfather would ever marry. 
The papers I have are all in order and legally valid, but 
there may have been some carelessness about registering 
them. I cannot be sure. Indeed it is thirty years at 
least since I looked at the originals.” 

• “ If you would have them taken out some time before 
I am married, I should be glad to see them, but there is 
no hurry. So all this riot and revolution has meant 
something after all,” added San Giacinto to change the 
^ subject. “Garibaldi has taken Monte Eotondo, I hear 
to-day.” 

“Yes, and if the French are not quick, we shall have 
the diversion of a siege,” replied Saracinesca rather 
scornfully. “That same taking of Monte Rotondo was 
one of those gallant deeds for which Garibaldi is so justly 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


137 


famous. He has six thousand men, and there were only- 
three hundred and fifty soldiers inside. Twenty to one, 
or thereabouts.” 

It is unnecessary to detail the remainder of the conver- 
sation. Saracinesca went off into loud abuse of Gari- 
baldi, confounding the whole Italian Government with 
him and devoting all to one common destruction, while 
San Giacinto reserved his judgment, believing that there 
was probably a wide difference between the real inten- 
tions of the guerilla general and of his lawful sovereign, 
Victor Emmanuel the Second, King of Italy. At last 
the two men were informed that Corona had returned. 
They left the study and found her in the sitting-room. 

‘‘Where is Giovanni?” she asked as soon as they en- 
tered. She was standing before the fireplace dressed as 
she had come in. 

“ I have no idea where he is, ” replied Saracinesca. “ I 
suppose he is at the club, or making visits somewhere. 
He has turned into a very orderly boy since you married 
him.” The old man laughed a little. 

“ I have missed him, ” said Corona, taking no notice of 
her father-in-law’s remark. “I was to have picked him 
up on the Pincio, and when I got there he was gone. I 
am so afraid he will think I forgot all about it, for I must 
have been late. You see, I was delayed by a crowd in 
the Tritone — there is always a crowd there.” 

Corona seemed less calm than usual. The fact was, 
that since the affair which had caused her husband so 
much annoyance, some small part of which she had per- 
ceived, she had been trying to make up to him for his 
disappointment in not knowing her secret, by being with 
him more than usual, and by exerting herself to please 
him in every way. They did not usually meet during 
the afternoon, as he generally went out on foot, while 
she drove, but to-day they had agreed that she should 
come to the Pincio . and take him for a short drive and 
bring him home. The plan was part of her fixed inten- 
tion to be more than usually thoughtful where he was 
concerned, and the idea that she had kept him waiting 
and that he had gone away caused her more regret than 
would have been natural in the ordinary course of events. 

In order to explain what now took place, it is necessary 


138 


sant’ ilario. 


to return to Giovanni himself who, as Corona had said, 
had waited for his wife near the band-stand on the Pincio 
for some time, until growing weary, he had walked away 
and left the gardens. 

Though he manfully concealed what he felt, the pas- 
sion that had been sown in his heart had grown apace 
and in a few days had assumed dominating proportions. 
He suspected everything and everybody while determined 
to appear indifferent. Even Corona’s efforts to please 
him, which of late had grown so apparent, caused him 
suspicion. He asked himself why her manner should 
have changed, as it undoubtedly had during the last few 
days. She had always been a good and loving wife to 
him, and he was well pleased with her gravity and her 
dignified way of showing her affection. Why should 
she suddenly think it needful to become so very solici- 
tous for his welfare and happiness during every moment 
of his life? It was not like her to come into his study 
early in the morning and to ask what he meant to do 
during the day. It was a new thing that she should 
constantly propose to walk with him, to drive with him, 
to read aloud to him, to make herself not only a part of 
his heart but a part of his occupations. Had the change 
come gradually, he would not have distrusted her 
motives. He liked his wife’s company and conversa- 
tion, but as they each had things to do which could not 
conveniently be done together, he had made up his mind 
to the existence which was good enough for his compan- 
ions in society. Other men did not think of spending 
the afternoon in their wives’ carriages, leaving cards or 
making visits, or driving round and round the Yilla 
Borghese and the Pincio. To do so was to be ridiculous 
in the extreme, and besides, though he liked to be with 
Corona, he detested visiting, and hated of all things to 
stop a dozen times in the course of a drive in order to 
send a footman upstairs with cards. He preferred to 
walk or to lounge in the club or to stay at home and 
study the problems of his improvements for Saracin- 
esca. Corona’s manner irritated him therefore, and 
made him think more than ever of the subject which he 
would have done better to abandon from the first. 

Nevertheless, he would not show that he was wearied 


sant’ ilario. 


139 


by his wife’s attention, still less that he believed her 
behaviour to be prompted by a desire to deceive him. 
He was uniformly courteous and gentle, acquiescing in 
her little plans whenever he could do so, and expressing 
a suitable degree of regret when he was prevented from 
joining her by some previous engagement. But the 
image of the French Zouave was ever present with him. 
He could not get rid of Gouache’s dark, delicate features, 
even in his dreams; the sound of the man’s pleasant 
voice and of his fluent conversation was constantly in his 
ears, and he could not look at Corona without fancying 
how she would look if Anastase were beside her whis- 
pering tender speeches. 

All the time, he submitted with a good grace to do 
whatever she proposed, and on this afternoon he found 
himself waiting for her beside the band-stand. At first 
he watched the passing carriages indifferently enough, 
supposing that his own liveries would presently loom up 
in the long line of high -seated coachmen and lacqueys, 
and having no especial desire to see them. His position 
when in Corona’s company grew every day more diffi- 
cult, and he thought as he stood by the stone pillar at 
the corner that he would on the whole be glad if she did 
not come. He was egregiously mistaken in himself, 
however. As the minutes passed he grew uneasy, and 
watched the advancing carriages with a feverish anxiety, 
saying to himself that every one must bring Corona, and 
actually growing pale with emotion as each vehicle 
turned the distant corner and came into view. The time 
seemed interminable after he had once yielded to the 
excitement, and before another quarter of an hour had 
elapsed, Sant’ Ilario turned angrily away and left the 
Pincio by the stairs that descend near the band-stand 
towards the winding drive by which the Piazza del 
Popolo is reached. 

It is not easy for a person who is calm to comprehend 
the workings of a brain over excited with a strong pas- 
sion. To a man who has lost the sober use of his facul- 
ties in the belief that he has been foully betrayed, every 
circumstance, every insignificant accident, seems a link 
in the chain of evidence. A week earlier Giovanni 
would have thought himself mad if the mere idea had 


140 


sant’ ilario. 


suggested itself to him that Corona loved Gouache. 
To-day he believed that she had purposely sent him to 
wait upon the Pincio, in order that she might be sure of 
seeing Gouache without fear of interruption. The con- 
viction thrust itself upon him with overwhelming force. 
He fancied himself the dupe of a common imposition, he 
saw his magnificent love and trust made the sport of a 
vulgar trick. The blood mounted to his dark face and 
as he descended the steps a red mist seemed to be spread 
between his eyes and all surrounding objects. Though 
he walked firmly and mechanically, saluting his acquaint- 
ances as he passed, he was unconscious of his actions, 
and moved like a man under the influence of a superior 
force. Jealousy is that one of all the passions which is 
most sure to break out suddenly into deeds of violence 
when long restrained. 

Giovanni scarcely knew how he reached the Corso nor 
how it was that he found himself ascending the dusky 
staircase which led to Gouache’s lodgings. It was less 
than a quarter of an hour since San Giacinto had been 
there, and the old woman still held her pot of coals in 
her hand as she opened the door. As she had pointed 
to the door when San Giacinto had come, so she now 
directed Giovanni in the same way. But Giovanni, on 
hearing that Anastase was out, began to ask questions. 

“Has any one been here?” he inquired. 

“Eh! There was a gentleman a quarter of an hour 
ago,” replied the wonftin. 

“Has any lady been here?” 

“A lady? Macche!” The old creature laughed. 
“What should ladies do here?” 

Giovanni thought he detected some hesitation in the 
tone. He was in the mood to fancy himself deceived by 
every one. 

“Are you fond of money?” he asked, brutally. 

“Eh! I am an old woman. What would you have? 
Am I crazy that I should not like money? But Signor 
Gouache is a very good gentleman. He pays well, thank 
Heaven ! ” 

“What does he pay you for?” 

“ What for? For his lodging — for his coffee. Bacchus ! 
What should he pay me for? Strange question in truth. 


sant’ ilario. 


141 


Do I keep a shop? I keep lodgings. But perhaps you 
like the place? It is a fine situation — just in the Corso 
and only one flight of stairs, a beautiful position for the 
Carnival. Of course, if you are inclined to pay more 
than Signor Gouache, I do not say but what 

‘‘I do not want your lodgings, my good Avoman,’^ 
returned Giovanni in gentler tones. “ I want to know 
who comes to see your lodger.” 

“Who should come? His friends of course. Who 
else? ” 

“A lady, perhaps,” said Giovanni in a thick voice. 
It hurt him to say it, and the Avords almost stuck in his 
throat. “ Perhaps a lady comes sometimes, ” he repeated, 
pulling out some loose bank notes. 

The old woman’s filmy eyes suddenly tAvinkled in the 
gloom. The sound of the crisp pieces of paper was 
delightful to her ear. 

“Well,” she said after a moment’s hesitation, “if a 
beautiful lady does come here, that is the Signore’s 
affair. It is none of my business.” 

Giovanni thrust the notes into her palm, which was 
already wide open to receive them. His heart beat 
wildly. 

“She is beautiful, you say?” 

“ Oh ! As beautiful as you please ! ” chuckled the hag. 

“Is she dark?” 

“Of course,” replied the woman. There was no mis- 
taking the tone in which the question was asked, for 
Giovanni was no longer able to conceal anything that he 
felt. 

“And tall, I suppose? Yes. And she was here a 
quarter of an hour ago, you say ? Speak out ! ” he cried, 
advancing a step towards the old creature. “If you lie 
to me, I will kill you 1 She was here — do not. deny it.” 

“Yes — yes,” answered the woman, cowering back in 
some terror. “Per carita! Don’t murder me — I tell 
you the truth.” 

With a sudden movement Giovanni turned on his heel 
and entered Gouache’s sitting-room. It Avas now almost 
dark in the house and he struck a match and lighted a 
candle that stood on the stable. The glare illuminated 
his swarthy features and fiery eyes, and the veins stood 


142 


sant’ ilario. 


out on his forehead and temples like strained and twisted 
cords. He looked about him in every direction, exam- 
ining the table, strewn with papers and books, the floor, 
the furniture, expecting every moment to find something 
which should prove that Corona had been there. Seeing 
nothing, he entered the bedroom beyond. It was a small 
chamber and he had scarcely passed through the door 
when he found himself before the toilet-table. The note 
San Giacinto had left was there pinned upon the little 
cushion with the gold pin, as he had placed it. 

Giovanni stared wildly at the thing for several seconds 
and his face grew deadly white. There was no evidence 
lacking now, for the pin was Corona’s own. It was a 
simple enough object, made of plain gold, the head being 
twisted into the shape of the letter C, but there was no 
mistaking its identity, for Giovanni had designed it 
himself. Corona used it for fastening her veil. 

As the blood sank from his head to his heart Giovanni 
grew very calm. He set the candle upon the toilet-table 
and took the note, after putting the pin in his pocket. 
The handwriting seemed to be feigned, and his lip curled 
scornfully as he looked at it and then, turning it over, 
saw that the envelope was one of Corona’s own. It 
seemed to him a pitiable piece of folly in her to distort 
her writing when there was such abundant proof on all 
sides to convict her. Without the slightest hesitation 
he opened the letter and read it, bending down and hold- 
ing it near the candle. One perusal was enough. He 
smiled curiously as he read the words, ‘‘ I am so watched 
that I can do nothing. Some one suspects something.” 
His attention was arrested by the statement that a trusty 
persoyi — the words were underlined — would bring the 
note. The meaning of the emphasis was explained by 
the pin; the trusty person was herself, who, perhaps by 
an afterthought, had left the bit of gold as a parting gift 
in case Gouache marched before they met again. 

Giovanni glanced once more round the room, half 
expecting to find some other convicting piece of evi- 
dence. Then he hesitated, holding the candle in one 
hand and the note in the other. He thought of staying 
where he was and waiting for Gouache, but the idea did 
not seem feasible. Nothing which implied waiting 


SANT’ ILAKIO. 


143 


could have satisfied him at that moment, and after a 
few seconds he thrust the note into his pocket and went 
out. His hand was on the outer door, when he remem- 
bered the old woman who sat crouching over her pan of 
coals, scarcely able to believe her good luck, and longing 
for Giovanni’s departure in order that she might count 
the crisp notes again. She dared not indulge herself in 
that pleasure while he was present, lest he should repent 
of his generosity and take back a part ®f them, for she 
had seen how he had taken them from his pocket and 
saw that he had no idea how much he had given. 

“You will say nothing of my coming,” said Giovanni, 
fixing his eyes upon her. 

“I, Signore? Do not be afraid! Money is better 
than words.” 

“Very good,” he answered. “Perhaps you will' get 
twice as much the next time I want to know the truth.” 

“ God bless you I ” chuckled the wrinkled creature. 
He went out, and the little bell that was fastened to the 
door tinkled as the latch sprang back into its place. 
Then the woman counted the price of blood, which had 
so unexpectedly fallen into her hands. The bank-notes 
were many and broad, and crisp and new, for Giovanni 
had not reckoned the cost. It was long since old Cate- 
rina Eanucci had seen so much money, and she had 
certainly never had so much of her own. 

“ Qualche innamorato ! ” she muttered to herself as she 
smoothed the notes one by one and gloated over them 
and built castles in the air under the light of her little 
oil lamp. “ It is some fellow in love. Heaven pardon 
me if I have done wrong! He seemed so anxious to 
know that the woman had been here — why should I not 
content him? Poveretto! He must be rich. I will 
always tell him what he wants to know. Heaven bring 
him often and bless him.” 

Then she rocked herself backwards and forwards, hug- 
ging her pot of coals and crooning the words of an ancient 
Homan ditty — 

“ lo vorrei che nella luna 
Ci s’andasse in carrettella 
Per vedere la pin bella 
Delle donne di la su I ” 


144 


sant’ ilarto. 


Wliat does tlie old song mean? Who knows whether 
it ever meant anything? ‘‘I wish one might drive in a 
little cart to the moon, to see the most beautiful of the 
women up there ! ’’ Caterina Kanucci somehow felt as 
though she could express her feelings in no better way 
than by singing the queer words to herself in her cracked 
old voice. Possibly she thought that the neighbours 
would not suspect her good fortune if they heard her 
favourite song. 


CHAPTER X. 

SanP Ilario walked home from Gouache’s lodgings. 
The cool evening air refreshed him and helped him to 
think over what he had before him in the near future. 
Indeed the position was terrible enough, and doubly so 
to a man of his temperament. He would have faced 
anything rather than this, for there was no point in 
which he was more vulnerable than in his love for 
Corona. As he walked her figure rose before him, and 
her beauty almost dazzled him when he thought of it. 
But he could no longer think of her without bringing up 
that other being upon whom his thoughts of vengeance 
concentrated themselves, until it seemed as though the 
mere intention must do its object some bodily harm. 

The fall was tremendous in itself and in its effects. 
It must have been a great passion indeed which could 
make such a man demean himself to bribe an inferior for 
information against his wife. He himself was so little 
able to measure the force by which he was swayed as to 
believe that he had extracted the confession from a 
reluctant accomplice. He would never have allowed 
that the sight of the money and the prompting of his 
own words could have caused the old woman to invent 
the perfectly imaginary story which he had seemed so 
fully determined to hear. He did not see that Caterina 
Ranucci had merely confirmed each statement he had 
made himself and had taken his bribe while laughing to 
herself at his folly. He was blinded by something 


saist’ ilario. 


145 


wliicli destroys the mental vision more surely than anger 
or hatred, or pride, or love itself. 

To some extent he was to be pardoned. The chain of 
circumstantial evidence was consecutive and so convinc- 
ing that many a just person would have accepted Corona’s 
guilt as the only possible explanation of what had hap- 
pened. The discoveries he had just made would alone 
have sufficed to set up a case against her, and many an 
innocent reputation has been shattered by less substan- 
tial proofs. Had he not found a letter, evidently written 
in a feigned hand and penned upon his wife’s own writ- 
ing-paper, fastened upon Gouache’s table with her own 
pin? Had not the old woman confessed — before he had 
found the note, too, — that a lady had been there but a 
short time before? Did not these facts agree singularly 
with Corona’s having left him to wait for her during 
that interval in the public gardens? Above all, did not 
this conclusion explain at once all those things in her 
conduct which had so much disturbed him during the 
past week? 

What was this story of Faustina Montevarchi’s disap- 
pearance? The girl was probably Corona’s innocent 
accomplice. Corona had left the house at one o’clock 
in the morning with Gouache. . The porter had not seen 
any other woman. The fact that she had entered the 
Palazzo Montevarchi with Faustina and without Anas- 
tase proved nothing, except that she had met the young 
girl somewhere else, it mattered little where. The story 
that Faustina had accidentally shut herself into a room 
in the palace was an invention, for even Corona admitted 
the fact. That Faustina’s flight, however, and the 
other events of the night of the 22d had been arranged 
merely in order that Corona and Gouache might walk in 
the moonlight for a quarter of an hour, Giovanni did not 
believe. There was some other mystery here which was 
yet unsolved. Meanwhile the facts he had collected 
were enough — enough to destroy his happiness at a 
single blow. And yet he loved Corona even now, and 
though his mind was made up clearly enough concerning 
Gouache, he knew that he could not part from the \foman 
he adored. He thought of the grim old fortress at Sara- 
cinesca with its lofty towers and impregnable walls, and 

L 


146 


sant’ ilario. 


when he reflected that there was but one possible exit 
from the huge mass of buildings, he said to himself that 
Corona would be safe there for ever. 

He had the instincts of a fierce and unforgiving race 
of men, who for centuries had held the law in their own 
hands, and were accustomed to wield it as it seemed good 
in their own eyes. It was not very long since the lords 
of Saracinesca had possessed the right of life and death 
over their vassals,^ and the hereditary traits of character 
which had been fostered by ages of power had not disap- 
peared with the decay of feudalism. Under the circum- 
stances which seemed imminent, it would not have been 
thought unnatural if Giovanni had confined his wife 
during the remainder of her days in his castle among 
the mountains. The idea may excite surprise among 
civilised Europeans when it is considered that the events 
of which I write occurred as recently as 1867, but it 
would certainly have evoked few expressions of astonish- 
ment among the friends of the persons concerned. To 
Giovanni himself it seemed the only possible conclusion 
to what was happening, and the determination to kill 
Gouache and imprison Corona for life appeared in his 
eyes neither barbarous nor impracticable. 

He did not hasten his pace as he went towards his 
home. There was something fateful in his regular step 
and marble face as he moved steadily to the accomplish- 
ment of his purpose. The fury which had at first 
possessed him, and which, if he had then encountered 
Gouache, would certainly have produced a violent out- 
break, had subsided and was lost in the certainty of his 
dishonour, and in the immensity of the pain he suffered. 
Nothing remained to be done but to tell Corona that he 
knew all, and to inflict upon her the consequences of her 
crime without delay. There was absolutely no hope 
left that she might prove herself innocent, and in Gio- 
vanni’s own breast there was no hope either, no hope of 
ever finding again his lost happiness, or of ever again 
setting one stone upon another of all that splendid fabric 


1 Until 1870 the right of life and death was still held, so far as actual 
legality was concerned, by the Dukes of Bracciano, and was attached to 
the possession of the title, which had been sold and subsequently bought 
back by the original holders of it. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 147 

of his life which he had built up so confidently upon the 
faith of the woman he loved. 

As he reached the gates of his home he grew if possi- 
ble paler than before, till his face was positively ghastly 
to see, and his eyes seemed to sink deeper beneath his 
brows, while their concentrated light gleamed more 
fiercely. No one saw him enter, for the porter was in 
his lodge, and on reaching the landing of the stairs Gio- 
vanni let himself into the apartments with a latch-key. 

Corona was in her dressing-room, a high vaulted cham- 
ber, somewhat sombrely furnished, but made cheerful by 
a fire that blazed brightly in the deep old-fashioned 
chimney-piece. Candles were lighted upon the dressing- 
table, and a shaded lamp stood upon a low stand near a 
lounge beside the hearth. The princess was clad in a 
loose wrapper of some soft creapi -coloured material, 
whose folds fell gracefully to the ground as she lay upon 
the couch. She was resting before dressing for dinner, 
and the masses of her blue-black hair were loosely coiled 
upon her head and held together by a great Spanish comb 
thrust among the tresses with a careless grace. She held 
a book in her slender, olive-tinted hand, but she was not 
reading; her head lay back upon the cushions and the 
firelight threw her features into strong relief, while her 
velvet eyes reflected the flashes of the dancing flames as 
she watched them. Her expression was serene and calm. 
She had forgotten for the moment the little annoyances 
of the last few days and was thinking of her happiness, 
contrasting the peace of her present life with what she 
had suffered during the five years of her marriage with 
poor old Astrardente. Could Giovanni have seen her 
thus his heart might have been softened. He would have 
asked himself how it was possible that any woman guilty 
of such enormous misdeeds could lie there watching the 
fire with a look of such calm innocence upon her face. 

But Giovanni did not see her as she was. Even in the 
extremity of his anger and suffering his courtesy did not 
forsake him, and he knocked at his wife’s door before 
entering the room. Corona moved from her position, 
and turned her head to see who was about to enter. 

‘‘Come in,” she said. 

She started when she saw Giovanni’s face. Dazzled 


148 


sant’ ilario. 


as she was by the fire, he looked to her like a dead man. 
She laid one hand upon the arm of the couch as though 
she would rise to meet him. He shut the door behind 
him and advanced towards her till only a couple of paces 
separated them. She was so much amazed by his looks 
that she sat quite still while he fixed his eyes upon her 
and began to speak. 

You have wrecked my life,’^ he said in a strange, low 
voice. “I have come to tell you my decision.’’ 

She thought he was raving mad, and, brave as she was, 
she shrank back a little upon her seat and turned pale. 

“You. need not be afraid of me,” he continued, as he 
noticed the movement. “ I am not going to kill you. I 
am sorry to say I am fool enough to love you still.” 

“ Giovanni ! ” cried Corona in an agonised tone. She 
could find no words, but sprang to her feet and threw her 
arms about him, gaHng imploringly into his face. His 
features did not relax, for he was prepared for any sort 
of acting on her part. Without hurting her, but with a 
strength few men could have resisted, he forced her back 
to her seat, and then retreated a step before he spoke 
again. She submitted blindly, feeling that any attempt 
to thwart him must be utterly useless. 

“I know what you have done,” he said. “You can 
have nothing to say. Be silent and listen to me. You 
have destroyed the greatest happiness the world ever 
knew. You have dishonoured me and mine. You have 
dragged my faith in you — God knows how great — into 
the mire of your infamous life. And worse than that — 
I could almost have forgiven that, I am so base — you 

have destroyed yourself ” 

Corona uttered a wild cry and sank back upon the 
cushions, pressing her hands over her ears so that she 
might not hear the fearful words. 

“I will not listen!” she gasped. “You are mad — 
mad ! ” Then springing up once more she again clasped 
him to her breast, so suddenly that he could not escape 
her. “ Oh, my poor Giovanni ! ” she moaned. “ What 
has happened to you? Have you been hurt? Are you 
dying? For Heaven’s sake speak like yourself I ” 

He seized her wrists and held her before him so that 
she was forced to hear what he said. Even then his 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


149 


grasp did not Imrt her. His hands were like manacles 
of steel in which hers could turn though she could not 
withdraw them. 

•‘I am hurt to death,” he said, between his teeth. 
have been to Gouache’s rooms and have brought away 
your letter — and your pin — the pin I gave you. Corona. 
Do you understand now, or must I say more?” 

“My letter?” cried Corona in the utmost bewilder- 
ment. 

“Yes,” he answered, releasing her and instantly pro- 
ducing the note and the gold ornament. “ Is that your 
paper? Is this your pin? Answer me — or no! they 
answer for themselves. You need say nothing, for you 
can have nothing to say. They are yours and you know 
it. If they are not enough there is the woman who let you 
in, who saw you bring them. What more do you want? ” 

As long as Giovanni’s accusations had been vague and 
general. Corona had remained horrorstruck, believing 
that some awful and incomprehensible calamity had be- 
fallen her husband and had destroyed his reason. The 
moment he produced the proof of what he said, her pres- 
ence of mind returned, and she saw at a glance the true 
horror of the situation. She never doubted for a moment 
that she was the victim of some atrocious plot, but hav- 
ing something to face which she could understand her 
great natural courage asserted itself. She was not a 
woman to moan and weep helplessly when there was an 
open danger to be met. 

She took the letter and the pin and examined them by 
the light, with a calmness that contrasted oddly with her 
previous conduct. Giovanni watched her. He supposed 
that she had acted surprise until he had brought for- 
ward something more conclusive than words, and that 
she was now exercising her ingenuity in order to explabi 
the situation. His lip curled scornfully, as he fancied 
he saw the meaning of her actions. After a few seconds 
she looked up and held out the two objects towards him. 

“The paper is mine,” she said, “but I did not write 
the letter. The pin is mine too. I lost it more than a 
month ago.” 

“Of course,” replied Giovanni, coldly. “I expected 
that you would say that. It is very natural. But I do 


150 


sant’ ilario. 


not ask you for any explanations. I have them already. 
I will take you to Saracinesca to-morrow morning and 
you will have time to explain everything. You will have 
your whole life to use, until you die, for no other object. 
I told you I would not kill you.” 

“ Is it possible that you are in earnest? ” asked Corona, 
her voice trembling slightly. 

‘‘I am in earnest. Do you think I am a man to jest 
over such deeds?” 

And do you think I am a woman to do such deeds?” 

Since you have done them — what answer can there 
be? Not only are you capable of them. You are the 
woman who has done them. Do lifeless things, like 
these, lie?” 

“No. But men do. I believe you, Giovanni. You 
found these things in Monsieur Gouache’s rooms. You 
were told I put them there. Whoever told you so uttered 
the most infamous falsehood that ever was spoken on 
earth. The person who placed them where they were 
did so in the hope of ruining me. Can you look back 
into the past and tell me that you have any other reason 
for believing in this foul plot?” 

“Keasons?” cried Giovanni, fiercely. “Do you want 
more reasons? We have time. I will give you enough to 
satisfy you that I know all you have done. Was not this 
man for ever near you last year, wherever you met, talk- 
ing with you in low tones, showing by every movement 
and gesture that he distinguished you with his base love? 
Were you not together in a corner last Tuesday night 
just as the insurrection broke out? Did he not kiss your 
hand when you both thought no one was looking? ” 

“ He kissed my hand before every one,” replied Corona, 
whose wrath was slowly gathering as she saw her hus- 
band’s determination to prove her guilty. 

“There were people in the room,” continued Giovanni 
in a tone of concentrated anger, “ but you thought no one 
was watching you — I could see it in your manner and in 
your eyes. That same night I came home at one o’clock 
and you were out. You had gone out alone with that 
man, expecting that I would not return so soon — though 
it was late enough, too. You were forced to admit that 
you were with him, because the i)orter had seen you and 
had told me the man was a Zouave.” 


sant’ ilario. 151 

I will tell you the story, since you no longer trust 
me,” said Corona, proudly. 

I have no doubt you will tell me some very ingenious 
tale which will explain why, although you left my house 
alone, with Gouache, you reached the Palazzo Monte- 
varchi alone with Faustina. But I have not done. He 
came here the next day. You treated him with unex- 
ampled rudeness before me. Half an hour later I found 
you together in the drawing-room. He was kissing your 
hand again. You were saying you forgave him and giving 
him that favourite benediction of yours, which you once 
bestowed upon me under very similar circumstances. 
Astrardente was alive and present at that dance in Casa 
Frangipani. You have me for a husband now and you 
have found another man whose heart will beat when you 
bless him. It would be almost better to kill you after 
all.” 

“ Have you finished? ” asked Corona, white with anger. 

“Yes. That letter and that pin — left while I, poor 
fool, was waiting for you this afternoon on the Pincio — 
those things are my last words. They close the tale very 
appropriately. I wish I did not love you so — I would 
not wait for your answer.” 

“ Do you dare to say you love me? ” 

“Yes — though there is no other man alive who would 
dare so much, who would dare to love such a woman as 
you are — for very shame.” 

“ And I tell you, ” answered Corona in ringing tones, 
“ that, although I can prove to you that every word you 
say against me is an abominable calumny, so that you 
shall see how basely you have insulted an innocent 
woman, yet I shall never love you again — never, never. 
A man who can believe such things, who can speak such 
things, is worthy of no woman’s love and shall not have 
mine. And yet you shall hear me tell the truth, that you 
may know what you have done. You say I have wrecked 
your life and destroyed your happiness. You have done 
it for yourself. As there is a God in Heaven ” 

“Do not blaspheme,” said Giovanni, , contemptuously . 
“I will hear your story.” 

“Before God, this thing is a lie! ” cried Corona, stand- 
ing at her full height, her eyes flashing with just indig- 
nation. Then lowering her voice, she continued speaking 


152 


sant’ ilario. 


rapidly but distinctly. Gouache loves Faustina, and 
she loves him. When he left this house that night she 
followed him out into the street. She reached the Ser- 
r is tori barracks and was stunned by the explosion. 
Gouache found her there many hours later. When you 
saAv us together a little earlier he Avas telling me he loved 
her. He is a man of honour. He saAV that the only Avay 
to save her good name was to bring her here and let me 
take her home. He sent me a Avord by the porter, while 
she waited in the shadoAV. I ran doAvn and found her 
there. We purposely prevented the porter from seeing 
her. I took her to her father’s house, and sent Gouache 
aAvay, for I was angry with him. I believed he had led 
an innocent girl into folloAving him — that it was a pre- 
arranged meeting and that she had gone not realising 
that there was a revolution. I invented the story of her 
having lost herself here, in order to shield her. The 
next day Gouache came. I would not speak to him and 
went to my room. The serA^ants told me he was gone, 
but as I was coming back to you I met him. He stopped 
me and made me believe Avhat is quite true, for Faustina 
has acknoAvledged it. She followed him of her oAvn 
accord, and he had no idea that she was not safe at 
home. I forgave him. He said he was going to the fron- 
tier and asked me to give him a blessing. It was a 
foolish idea, perhaps, but I did as he Avished. If you 
had come forAvard like a man instead of listening we 
would have told you all. But you suspected me even 
then. I do not knoAv who told you that I had been to 
his lodging to-day. The carriage was stopped by a crowd 
in the Tritone, and I reached the Fincio after you had 
gone. As for the pin, I lost it a month ago. Gouache 
may have found it, or it may have been picked up and 
sold, and he may have chanced to buy it. I never Avrote 
the letter. The paper was either taken from this house 
or was got from the stationer who stamps it for us. 
Faustina may have taken it — she may have been here* 
when I Avas out — it is not her handAvriting. I beUeA^e 
it is an abominable plot. But it is as transparent as 
Avater. Take the pin and wear it. See Gouache Avhen 
you have it. He Avill ask you Avhere you got it, for he 
has not the slightest idea that it is mine. Are you satis- 


sant’ ilario. 


153 


fied? I have told you all. Do you see what you have 
done, in suspecting me, in accusing me, in treating me 
like the last of women? I have done. What have you 
to say?” 

‘‘That you have told a very improbable story,” replied 
Giovanni. “You have sunk lower than before, for you 
have cast a slur upon an innocent girl in order to shield 
yourself. I would not have believed you capable of that. 
You can no more prove your innocence than you can 
prove that this poor child was mad enough to follow 
Gouache into the street last Tuesday night. I have lis- 
tened to you patiently. I have but one thing more to 
do and then there will be nothing left for me but pa- 
tience. You will send for your servants, and order your 
■ effects to be packed for the journey to Saracinesca. If 
it suits your convenience we will start at eleven o’clock, 
as I shall be occupied until then. I advise you not to 
see my father.” 

Corona stood quite still while he spoke. She could 
not realise that he paid no attention whatever to her 
story, save to despise her the more for having implicated 
Faustina. It was inconceivable to her that all the cir- 
cumstances should not now be as clear to him as they 
were to herself. From the state of absolute innocence 
she could not transfer herself in a moment to the com- 
prehension of all he had suffered, all he had thought, and 
all he had recalled before accusing her. Even had that 
been possible, her story seemed to her to give a perfectly 
satisfactory explanation of all his suspicions. She was 
wounded, indeed, so deeply that she knew she could 
never recover herself entirely, but it did not strike her 
as possible that all she had said should produce no effect 
at all. And yet she knew his look and his ways, and 
recognised in the tone of his voice the expression of a 
determination which it would be hard indeed to change. 
He still believed her guilty, and he was going to take 
her away to the dismal loneliness of the mountains for an 
indefinite time, perhaps for ever. She had not a relation 
in the world to whom she could appeal. Her mother 
had died in her infancy ; her father, for whom she sacri- 
ficed herself in 'marrying the rich old Duke of Astrar- 
dente, was dead long ago. She could turn to no one, 


154 


sant’ ilauio. 


unless it were to Prince Saracinesca himself — and Gio- 
vanni warned her not to go to his father. She stood for 
some moments looking fixedly at him as though trying 
to read his thoughts, and he returned her gaze with 
unflinching sternness. The position was desperate. In 
a few hours she would be where there would be no pos- 
sibility of defence or argument, and she knew the man’s 
character well enough to be sure that where proof failed 
entreaty would be worse than useless. At last she came 
near to him and almost gently laid her hand upon his arm. 

“Giovanni,” she said, quietly, “I have loved you 
very tenderly and very truly. 1 swear to you upon our 
child that I am wholly innocent. Will you not believe 
me? ” 

“Ko,” he answered, and the little word fell from his . 
lips like the blow of a steel hammer. His eyes did not 
flinch ; his features did not change. 

“Will you not ask some one who knows whether I 
have not spoken the truth? Will you not let me write — 
or write yourself to those two, and ask them to come 
here and tell you their story? It is much to ask of them, 
but it is life or death to me and they will not refuse. 
Will you not do it? ” 

“No, I will not.” 

“ Then do what you will with me, and may God for- 
give you, for I cannot.” 

Corona turned from him and crossed the room. There 
was a cushioned stool there, over which hung a beautiful 
crucifix. Corona knelt down, as though not heeding her 
husband’s presence, and buried her face in her hands. 

Giovanni stood motionless in the middle of the room. 
His eyes had followed his wife’s movements and he 
watched her in silence for a short time. Convinced, as 
he was, of her guilt, he believed she was acting a part, 
and that her kneeling down was merely intended to pro- 
duce a theatrical eflect. The accent of truth in her 
words made no impression whatever upon him, and her 
actions seemed to him too graceful to be natural, too 
dignified for a woman who was not trying all the time to 
make the best of her appearance. The story she had 
told coincided too precisely, if possible, with the doings 
of which he had accused her, while it failed in his judg- 


sant’ ilario. 


155 


ment to explain the motives of what she had done. He 
said to himself that he, in her place, would have told 
everything on that first occasion when she had come 
home and had found him waiting for her. He forgot, or 
did not realise, that she had been taken unawares, when 
she expected to find time to consider her course, and had 
been forced to make up her mind suddenly. Almost any 
other woman would have told the whole adventure at 
once; any woman less wholly innocent of harm would 
have seen the risk she incurred by asking her husband’s 
indulgence for her silence. He was persuaded that she 
had played upon his confidence in her and had reckoned 
upon his belief in her sincerity in order to be bold with 
half the truth. Suspicion and jealousy had made him 
so ingenious that he imputed to her a tortuous policy of 
deception, of which she was altogether incapable. 

Corona did not kneel long. She had no intention of 
making use of the appearance of prayer in order to affect 
Giovanni’s decision, nor in order to induce him to leave 
her alone. He would, indeed, have quitted the room 
had she remained upon her knees a few moments longer, 
but when she rose and faced him once more he was 
still standing as she had left him, his eyes fixed upon 
her and his arms folded upon his breast; He thought 
she was going to renew her defence, but he was mis- 
taken. She came and stood before him, so that a little 
distance separated him from her, and she spoke calmly, 
in her deep, musical voice. 

“You have made up your mind, then. Is that your 
last word? ” 

“It is.” 

“ Then I will say what I have to say. It shall not be 
much, but we shall not often talk together in future. 
You will remember some day what I tell you. I am an 
innocent and defenceless woman. I have no relation to 
whom I can appeal. You have forbidden me to write to 
those who could prove me guiltless. For the sake of our 
child — for the sake of the love I have borne you — I 
will make no attempt at resistance. The world shall not 
know that you have even doubted me, the mother of 
your son, the woman who has loved you. The time will 
come when you will ask my forgiveness for your deeds. 


156 


sant’ ilario. 


I tell you frankly that I shall never be capable of for- 
giving you, nor of speaking a kind word to you again. 
This is neither a threat nor a warning, though it may 
perhaps be the means of sparing you some disappoint- 
ment. I only ask two things of your courtesy — that 
you will inform me of what you mean to do with our 
child, and that you will then be good enough to leave 
me alone for a little while.’’ 

An evil thought crossed Giovanni’s mind. He knew 
how Corona would suffer if she were not allowed either 
to see little Orsino or to know what became of him 
while she was living her solitary life of confinement in 
the mountains. The diabolical cruelty of the idea fas- 
cinated him for a moment, and he looked coldly into her 
eyes as though he did not mean to answer her. In spite 
of his new jealousy, however, he was not capable of 
inflicting this last blow. As he looked at her beautiful 
white face and serious eyes, he wavered. He loved her 
still and would have loved her, had the proofs against her 
been tenfold more convincing than they were. With 
him his love was a passion apart and by itself. It had 
been strengthened and made beautiful by the devotion 
and tenderness and faith which had grown up with it, 
and had surrounded it as with a wall. But though all 
these things were swept away the passion itself remained, 
fierce, indomitable and soul-stirring in its power. It 
stood alone, like the impregnable keep of a war-worn 
fortress, beneath whose shadow the outworks and ram- 
parts have been razed to the ground, and whose own 
lofty walls are battered and dinted by engines of Avar, 
shorn of all beauty and of all its stately surroundings, 
but stern and unshaken yet, grim, massive and solitary. 

For an instant Giovanni wavered, unable to struggle 
against that mysterious power which still governed him 
and forced him to acknowledge its influence. The effort 
of resisting the temptation to be abominably cruel carried 
him back from his main purpose, and produced a sudden 
revulsion of feeling wholly incomprehensible to himself. 

“ Corona ! ” he cried, in a voice breaking with emotion. 
He threw out his arms wildly and sprang towards her. 
She thrust him back with a strength of which he would 
not have believed her capable. Bitter words rose to her 


SANT’ ILAKIO. 


157 


lips, but she forced them back and was silent, though 
her eyes blazed with an anger she had never felt before. 
For some time neither spoke. Corona stood erect and 
watchful, one hand resting upon the back of a chair. 
Giovanni walked to the end of the room, and then came 
back and looked steadily into her face. Several seconds 
elapsed before he could speak, and his face was very 
white. 

“You may keep the child,” he said at last, in an 
unsteady tone. Then without another word he left the 
room and softly closed the door behind him. 

Wnen Corona was alone she remained standing as he 
had last seen her, her gaze fixed on the heavy curtains 
through which he had disappeared. Gradually her face 
grew rigid, and the expression vanished from her deep 
eyes, till they looked dull and glassy. She tottered, 
lost her hold upon the chair and fell to the floor with an 
inarticulate groan. There she lay, white, beautiful and 
motionless as a marble statue, mercifully unconscious, 
for a space, of all she had to suffer. 

Giovanni went from his wife’s presence to his father’s 
study. The prince sat at his writing-table, a heap of 
dusty parchments and papers piled before him. He was 
untying the rotten strings with which they were fast- 
ened, peering through his glasses at the headings written 
across the various documents. He did not unfold them, 
but laid them carefully in order upon the table. When 
San Giacinto had gone away, the old gentleman had noth- 
ing to do for an hour or more before dinner. He had 
accordingly opened a solid old closet in the library which 
served as a sort of muniment room for the family 
archives, and had withdrawn a certain box in which he 
knew that the deeds concerning the cession of title were 
to be found. He did not intend to look them over this 
evening, but was merely arranging them for examination 
on the morrow. He looked up as Giovanni entered, and 
started from his chair when he saw his son’s face. 

“ Good heavens ! Giovannino ! what has happened? ” he 
cried, in great anxiety. 

“ I came to tell you that Corona and I are going to 
Saracinesca to-morrow,” answered Sant’ Ilario, in a low 
voice. 


158 


sant’ ilario. 


“What? At this time of year? Besides, you cannot 
get there. The road is full of Garibaldians and soldiers. 
It is not safe to leave the city! Are you ill? What is 
the matter? 

“Oh — nothing especial,” replied Giovanni with an 
attempt to assume an indiiferent tone. “We think the 
mountain air will be good for my wife, that is all. I do 
not think we shall really have much difficulty in getting 
there. Half of this war is mere talk.” 

“And the other half consists largely of stray bullets,” 
observed the prince, eyeing his son suspiciously from 
under his shaggy brows. “You will allow me to say, 
Giovanni, that for thoughtless folly you have rarely had 
your equal in the world.” 

“ I believe you are right, ” returned the younger man 
bitterly. “Nevertheless 1 mean to undertake this jour- 
ney.” 

“And does Corona consent to it? Why are you so 
pale? I believe you are ill?” 

“Yes — she consents. We shall take the child.” 

“Orsino? You are certainly out of your mind. It is 
bad enough to take a delicate woman ” 

“ Corona is far from delicate. She is very strong and 
able to bear anything.” 

“Don’t interrupt me. I tell you she is a woman, and 
so of course she must be delicate. Can you not under- 
stand common sense? As for the boy, he is my grand- 
son, and if you are not old enough to know how to take 
care of him, I am. He shall not go. I will not permit 
it. You are talking nonsense. Go and dress for dinner, 
or send for the doctor — in short, behave like a human 
being! I will go and see Corona myself.” 

The old gentleman’s hasty temper was already up, 
and he strode to the door. Giovanni laid his hand some- 
what heavily upon his father’s arm. 

“Excuse me,” he said, “Corona cannot see you now. 
She is dressing.” 

“ I will talk to her through the door. I will wait in 
her boudoir till she can see me.” 

“ I do not think she will see you this evening. She 
will be busy in getting ready for the journey.” 

“She will dine with us, I suppose?” 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


159 


“I scarcely know — I am not sure.” 

Old Saracinesca suddenly turned upon his son. His 
gray hair bristled on his head, and his black eyes flashed. 
With a quick movement he seized Giovanni’s arms and 
held him before him as in a vice. 

“ Look here ! ” he cried savagely. I will not be made 
a fool of by a boy. Something has happened which you 
are afraid to tell me. Answer me. I mean to know! ” 

‘Wou will not know from me,” replied Sant’ Ilario, 
keeping his temper as he generally did in the face of a 
struggle. “You will know nothing, because there is 
nothing to know.” Saracinesca laughed. 

“Then there can be no possible objection to my seeing 
Corona,” he said, dropping his hold and again going 
towards the door. Once more Giovanni stopped him. 

“You cannot see her now,” he said in determined 
tones. 

“Then tell me what all this trouble is about,” retorted 
his father. 

But Giovanni did not speak. Had he been cooler he 
would not have sought the interview so soon, but he had 
forgotten that the old prince would certainly want to 
know the reason of the sudden journey. 

“Do you mean to tell me or not?” 

“The fact is,” replied Giovanni desperately, “we have 
consulted the doctor — Corona is not really well — he 
advises us to go to the mountains ” 

“Giovanni,” broke in the old man roughly, “you never 
lied to me, but you are lying now. There has been 
trouble between you two, though I cannot imagine what 
has caused it.” 

“ Pray do not ask me, then. I am doing what I think 
best — what you would think best if you knew all. I 
came to tell you that we were going, and I did not sup- 
pose you would have anything to say. Since you do not 
like the idea — well, I am sorry — but I entreat you not 
to ask questions. Let us go in peace.” 

Saracinesca looked flxedly at his son for some minutes. 
Then the anger faded from his face, and his expression 
grew very grave. He loved Giovanni exceedingly, and 
he loved Corona for his sake more than for her own, 
though he admired her and delighted in her conversation. 


160 


SANT’ ILAPvIO. 


It was certain that if there were a quarrel between hus- 
band and wife, and if Giovanni had the smallest show of 
right on his side, the old man’s sympathies would be 
with him. 

Giovanni’s sense of honour, on the other hand, pre- 
vented him from telling his father what had happened. 
He did not choose that even his nearest relation should 
think of Corona as he thought himself, and he would 
have taken any step to conceal her guilt. Unfortunately 
for his purpose he was a very truthful man, and had no 
experience of lying, so that his father detected him at 
once. Moreover, his pale face and agitated manner told 
plainly enough that something very serious had occurred, 
and so soon as the old prince had convinced himself of 
this his goodwill was enlisted on the side of his son. 

‘‘Giovannino,” he said at last very gently, “I do not 
want to pry into your secrets nor to ask you questions 
which you do not care to answer. I do not believe you 
are capable of having committed any serious folly which 
your wife could really resent. If you should be unfaith- 
ful to her, I would disown you. If, on the other hand, 
she has deceived you, I will do all in my power to help 
you.” 

Perhaps Giovanni’s face betrayed something of the 
truth at these words. He turned away and leaned 
against the chimney-piece. 

“I cannot tell you — I cannot tell you,” he repeated. 
‘^I think I am doing what is best. That is all I can say. 
You may know some day, though I trust not. Let us go 
away without explanations.” 

“My dear boy,” replied the old man, coming up to 
him and laying his hand on his shoulder, “you must do 
as you think best. Go to Saracinesca if you will, and if 
you can. If not, go somewhere else. Take heart. 
Things are not always as black as they look.” 

Giovanni straightened himself as though by an effort, 
and grasped his father’s broad, brown hand. 

“ Thank you,” he said. “ Good-bye. I will come down 
and see you in a few days. Good-bye ! ” 

His voice trembled and he hurriedly left the room. 
The prince stood still a moment and then threw himself 
into a deep chair, staring at the lamp and biting his gray 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


161 


moustache savagely, as though to hide some almost 
uncontrollable emotion. There was a slight moisture in 
his eyes as they looked steadily at the bright lamp. 

The papers and parchments lay unheeded on the table, 
and he did not touch them again that night. He was 
thinking, not of his lonely old age nor of the dishonour 
brought upon his house, but of the boy he had loved as 
his own soul for more than thirty years, and of a swarthy 
• little child that lay asleep in a distant room, the warm 
blood tinging its olive cheeks and its little clinched 
hands thrown back above its head. 

For Corona he had no thought but hatred. He had 
guessed Giovanni’s secret too well, and his heart was 
hardened against the woman who had brought shame and 
suffering upon his son. 


CHAPTER XL 

San Giacinto had signally failed in his attempt to 
prevent the meeting between Gouache and Faustina 
Montevarchi, and had unintentionally caused trouble of 
a much more serious nature in another quarter. The 
Zouave returned to his lodging late at night, and of 
course found no note upon his dressing-table. He did 
not miss the pin, for he of course never wore it, and 
attached no particular value to a thing of such small 
worth which he had picked up in the street and which 
consequently had no associations for him. He lacked 
the sense of order in his belongings, and the pin had lain 
neglected for weeks among a heap of useless little trifles, 
dingy cotillon favours that had been there since the 
previous year, stray copper coins, broken pencils, uni- 
form buttons and such trash, accumulated during many 
months and totally unheeded. Had he seen the pin 
anywhere else he would have recognised it, but he did 
not notice its absence. The old woman. Cater ina Ra- 
nucci, hugged her money and said nothing about either of 
the visitors who had entered the room during the after- 
noon. The consequence was that Gouache rose early on 

M 


1G2 


sant’ ilario. 


the following morning and went towards the church with 
a light heart. He did not know certainly that Faustina 
would come there, and indeed there were many probabil- 
ities against her doing so; but in the hopefulness of a 
man thoroughly in love, Gouache locked forward to 
seeing her with as much assurance as though the matter 
had been arranged and settled between them. 

The parish church of Sant’ Agostino is a very large 
building. The masses succeed each other in rapid suc- 
cession from seven o’clock in the morning until midday, 
and a great crowd of parishioners pass in and out in an 
almost constant stream. It was therefore Gouache’s 
intention to arrive so early as to be sure that Faustina 
had not yet come, and he trusted to luck to be there at 
the right time, for he was obliged to visit the temporary 
barrack of his corps before going to the church, and was 
also obliged to attend mass at a later hour with his 
battalion. On presenting himself at quarters he learned 
to his surprise that Monte Eotondo had not surrendered 
yet, though news of the catastrophe was expected every 
moment. The Zouaves were ordered to remain under 
arms all day in case of emergency, and it was only 
through the friendly assistance of one of his officers that 
Anastase obtained leave to absent himself for a couple 
of hours. He hailed a cab and drove to the church as 
fast as he could. 

In less than twenty minutes after he had stationed 
himself at the entrance, Faustina ascended the steps ac- 
companied by a servant. The latter was a middle-aged 
woman with hard features, clad in black, and wearing 
a handkerchief thrown loosely over her head after the 
manner of maids in those days. She evidently expected 
nothing, for she looked straight before her, peering into 
the church in order to see beforehand at which chapel 
there was likely to be a mass immediately. Faustina 
was a lovely figure in the midst of the crowd of common 
people who thronged the doorway, and whose coarse dark 
faces threw her ethereal features into strong relief while 
she advanced. Gouache felt his heart beat hard, for he 
had not seen her for five days since they had parted on 
that memorable Tuesday night at the gate of her father’s 
house. Her eyes met his in a long and loving look, and 


SANT’ ILARTO. 


163 


the colour rose faintly in her delicate pale cheek. In 
the press she managed to pass close to him, and for a 
moment he succeeded in clasping her small hand in his, 
her maid being on the other side. He was about to ask 
a question when she whispered a few words and passed 
on. 

“Follow me through the crowd, I will manage it,” was 
what she said. 

Gouache obeyed, and kept close behind her. The 
church was very full and there was .difficulty in getting 
seats. 

“ I will wait here, ” said the young girl to her servant. 
“ Get us chairs and find out where thero is to be a mass. 
It is of no use for me to go through the crowd if I may 
have to come back again.” 

The hard-featured woman nodded and went away. 
Several minutes must elapse before she returned, and 
Faustina with Gouache behind her moved across the 
stream of persons who were going out through the door 
in the other aisle. In a moment they found themselves 
in a comparatively quiet corner, separated from the main 
body of the church by the moving people. Faustina 
fixed her eyes in the direction whence her woman would 
probably return, ready to enter the throng instantly, if 
necessary. Even where they now were, so many others 
were standing and kneeling that the presence of the 
Zouave beside Faustina would create no surprise. 

“ It is very wrong to meet you in church,” said the girl, 
a little shy, at first, with that timidity a woman always 
feels on meeting a man whom she has last seen on un - 
expectedly intimate terms. 

“I could not go away without seeing you,” replied 
Gouache, his eyes intent on her face. “And I knew you 
would understand my signs, though no one else would. 
You have made me very happy, Faustina. It would have 
been agony to march away without seeing your face again 
— you do not know what these days have been without 
you ! Do you realise that we used to meet almost every 
afternoon? Did they tell you why I could not come? I 
told every one I met, in hopes you might hear. Did 
you? Do you understand? ” 

Faustina nodded her graceful head, and glanced quickly 


164 


sant’ ilario. 


at his face. Then she looked down, tapping the pavement 
gently with her parasol. The colour came and went in 
her cheeks. 

^‘Do you really love me?” she asked in a low voice. 

‘‘I think, my darling, that no one ever loved as I love. 
I would that I might be given time to tell you what my 
love is, and that you might have patience to hear. What 
are words, unless one can say all one would? What is it, 
if I tell you that I love you with all my heart, and soul 
and thoughts? Do not other men say as much and forget 
that they have spoken? I would find a way of saying it 
that should make you believe in spite of yourself ” 

“In spite of myself?” interrupted Faustina, with a 
bright smile while her brown eyes rested lovingly on his 
for an instant. “You need not that,” she added , simply, 
“for I love you, too.” 

Nothing but the sanctity of the place prevented Anas- 
tase from taking her in his arms then and there. There 
was something so exquisite in her simplicity and earnest- 
ness that he found himself speechless before her for a 
moment. It was something that intoxicated his spirit 
more than his senses, for it was utterly new to him and 
appealed to his own loyal and innocent nature as it could 
not have appealed to a baser man. 

“Ah Faustina! ” he said at last, “God made you when 
he made the violets, on a spring morning in Paradise ! ” 

Faustina blushed again, faintly as the sea at dawn. 

“ Must you go away? ” she asked. 

“You would not have me desert at such a moment?” 

“ Would it be deserting — quite? Would it be dishon- 
ourable? ” 

“ It would be cowardly. I should never dare to look 
you in the face again.” 

“I suppose it would be wrong,” she answered with a 
bitter little sigh. 

“ I will come back very soon, dearest. The time will 
be short.” 

“ So long — so long I How can you say it will be short? 
If you do not come soon you will find me dead — I can- 
not bear it many days more.” 

“ I will write to you. ” 

“How can you write? Your letters would be seen. 
Oh no ! It is impossible ! ” 


SANT’ ILAKIO. 


1G5 


will write to your friend — to the Princess Sant’ 
Ilario. She will give you the letters. She is safe, is she 
not? ” 

“ Oh, how happy I shall be ! It will be almost like 
seeing you — no, not that ! But so much better than noth- 
ing. But you do not go at once?” 

“ It may be to-day, to-morrow, at any time. But you 
shall know of it. Ah Faustina ! my own one ” 

“ Hush ! There is my maid. Quick, behind the pillar. 
I will meet her. Good-bye — good-bye — Oh ! not good- 
bye — some other word ” 

“God keep you, my beloved, and make it not ‘good- 
bye ’ ! ” 

With one furtive touch of the hand, one long last look, 
they separated, Faustina to mingle in the crowd, Gouache 
to follow at a long distance until he saw her kneeling at 
her chair before one of the side altars of the church. 
Then he stationed himself where he could see her, and 
watched through the half hour during which the low mass 
lasted. He did not know when he should see her again, 
and indeed it was as likely as not that they should not 
meet on this side of eternity. Many a gallant young 
fellow marched out in those days and was picked off by a 
bullet from a red-shirted volunteer. Gouache, indeed, 
did not believe that his life was to be cut short so sud- 
denly, and built castles in the air with that careless de- 
light in the future which a man feels who is not at all 
afraid. But such accidents happened often, and though 
he might be more lucky than another, it was just as pos- 
sible that an ounce of lead should put an end to his sol- 
diering, his painting and his courtship within another 
week. The mere thought was so horrible that his bright 
nature refused to harbour it, and he gazed on Faustina 
Monte varchi a.s she knelt at her devotions, wondering, 
indeed, what strange chances fate had in store for them 
both, but never once doubting that she should one day be 
his. He waited until she passed him in the crowd, and 
gave him one more look before going away. Then, when 
he had seen her disappear at the turning of the street, he 
sprang into his cab and was driven back to the barracks 
where he must remain on duty all day. 

As he descended he was surprised to see Sant’ Ilario 


166 


sant’ ilarto. 


standing upon the pavement, very pale, and apparently 
in a bad humour, his overcoat buttoned to his throat, and 
his hands thrust in the pockets. There was no one in 
the street, but the sentinel at the doorway, and Giovanni 
walked quickly up to Gouache as the latter fumbled for 
the change to pay his driver. Anastase smiled and made 
a short military salute. Sant^ Ilario bowed stiffly and 
did not extend his hand. 

“ I tried to find you last night,” he said coldly. You 
were out. Will you favour me with five minutes^ con- 
versation? ” 

‘‘Willingly,” answered the other, looking instinctively 
at his watch, to be sure that he had time to spare. 

Sant’ Ilario walked a few yards up the street, before 
speaking. Gouache keeping close to his side. Then both 
stopped, and Giovanni turned sharply round and faced 
his enemy. 

“It is unnecessary to enter into any explanations. 
Monsieur Gouache,” he said. “This is a matter which 
can only end in one way. I presume you will see the 
propriety of inventing a pretext which may explain our 
meeting before the world.” 

Gouache stared at Sant’ Ilario in the utmost amaze- 
ment. When they had last met they had parted on the 
most friendly terms. He did not understand a word of 
what his companion was saying. 

“ Excuse me, prince, ” he said at length. “ I have not 
the least idea what you mean. As far as I am concerned 
this meeting is quite accidental. I came here on duty.” 

Sant’ Ilario was somewhat taken aback by the Zouave’s 
polite astonishment. He seemed even more angry than 
surprised, however; and his black eyebrows bent together 
fiercely. 

“Let us waste no words,” he said imperiously. “If I 
had found you last night, the affair might have been over 
by this time.” 

“What affair?” asked Gouache, more and more mys- 
tified. 

“You are amazingly slow of comprehension. Monsieur 
Gouache,” observed Giovanni. “To be plain, I desire to 
have an opportunity of killing you. Do you understand 
me now?” 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


167 


“Perfectly,” returned the soldier, raising his brows, 
and then breaking into a laugh of genuine amusement. 
“ You are quite welcome to as many opportunities as you 
like, though I confess it would interest me to know the 
reason of your good intentions towards me.” 

If Gouache had behaved as Giovanni had expected he 
would, the latter would have repeated his request that a 
pretext should be found which should explain the duel to 
the world. But there was such extraordinary assurance 
in the Zouave’s manner that Sant’ Ilario suddenly became 
exasperated with him and lost his temper, a misfortune 
which very rarely happened to him. 

“Monsieur Gouache,” he sj^id angrily, “I took the 
liberty of visiting your lodgings yesterday afternoon, and 
I found this letter, fastened with this pin upon your 
table. I presume you will not think any further expla- 
nation necessary.” 

Gouache stared at the objects which Sant’ Ilario held 
out to him and drew back stiffly. It was his turn to be 
outraged at the insult. 

“Sir,” he said, “I understand that you acted in the 
most impertinent manner in entering my room and tak- 
ing what did not belong to you. I understand nothing 
else. I found that pin on the Ponte Sant’ Angelo a 
month ago, and it was, I believe, upon my table yester- 
day. As for the letter I know nothing about it. Yes, 
if you insist, I will read it.” 

There was a pause during which Gouache ran his eyes 
over the few lines written on the notepaper, while Gio- 
vanni watched him very pale and wrathful. 

“ The pin is my wife’s, and the note is written on her 
paper and addressed to you, though in a feigned hand. 
Do you deny that both came from her, were brought by 
her in person, for yourself? ” 

“I deny it utterly and categorically,” answered Gou- 
ache. “ Though I will assuredly demand satisfaction of 
you for entering my rooms without my permission, I give 
you my word of honour that I could receive no such letter 
from the princess, your wife. The thing is monstrously 
iniquitous, and you have been grossly deceived into in- 
juring the good name of a woman as innocent as an angel. 
Since the pin is the property of the princess, pray return 


168 


SANT’ ILAEia 


it to her with my compliments, and say that I found it 
on the bridge of Sant’ Angelo. I can remember the very 
date. It was a quarter of an hour before I was run over 
by Prince Montevarchi’s carriage. It was therefore on 
the 23d of September. As for the rest, do me the favour 
to tell me where my friends can find yours in an hour.” 

“ At my house. But allow me to add that I do not 
believe a word of what you say.” 

“ Is it a Roman custom to insult a man who has agreed 
to fight with you? ” inquired Gouache. ‘‘We are more 
polite in Prance. We salute our adversaries before be- 
ginning the combat.” 

Therewith the Zouave saluted Giovanni courteously 
and turned on his heel, leaving the latter in an even 
worse humour than he had found him. Gouache was too 
much surprised at the interview to reason connectedly 
about the causes which had led to it, and accepted the 
duel with Sant’ Ilario blindly, because he could not avoid 
it, and because whatever offence he himself had unwit- 
tingly given he had in turn been insulted by Giovanni in 
a way which left him no alternative but that of a resort 
to arms. His adversary had admitted, had indeed boasted, 
of having entered Gouache’s rooms, and of having taken 
thence the letter and the pin. This alone constituted an 
injury for which reparation was necessary, but not con- 
tent with this, Sant’ Ilario had given him the lie direct. 
Matters were so confused that it was hard to tell which 
was the injured party ; but since the prince had undoubt- 
edly furnished a pretext more than sufficient, the soldier 
had seized the opportunity of proposing to send his friends 
to demand satisfaction. It was clear, however, that the 
duel could not take place at once, since Gouache was 
under arms, and it was imperatively necessary that he 
should have permission to risk his life in a private 
quarrel at such a time. It was also certain that his 
superiors would not allow anything of the kind at pres- 
ent, and Gouache for his part was glad of the fact. He 
preferred to be killed before the enemy rather than in a 
duel for which there was no adequate explanation, except 
that a man who had been outrageously deceived by a per- 
son or persons unknown had chosen to attack him for a 
thing he had never done. He had not the slightest inten- 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


169 


tion of avoiding the encounter, but he preferred to see 
some active service in a cause to which he was devoted 
before being run through the body by one who was his 
enemy only by mistake. Giovanni’s reputation as a 
swordsman made it probable^ that the issue would be un- 
favourable to Gouache, and the latter, with the simple 
fearlessness that belonged to his character, meant if pos- 
sible to have a chance of distinguishing himself before 
being killed. 

Half an hour later, a couple of officers of Zouaves 
called upon Sant’ Ilario, and found his representatives 
waiting for them. Giovanni had had the good fortune 
to find Count Spicca at home. That melancholy gentle- 
man had been his second in an affair with Ugo del Ferice 
nearly three years earlier and had subsequently killed 
one of the latter’s seconds in consequence of his dishon- 
ourable behaviour in the field. He had been absent in 
consequence until a few weeks before the present time, 
when matters had been arranged, and he had found him- 
self free to return unmolested. It had been remarked at 
the club that something would happen before he had been 
in Rome many days. He was a very tall and cadaverous 
man, exceedingly prone to take offence, and exceedingly 
skilful in exacting the precise amount of blood which he 
considered a fair return for an injury. He had never 
been known to kill a man by accident, but had rarely 
failed to take his adversary’s life when he had deter- 
mined to do so. Spicca had brought another friend, 
whom it is unnecessary to describe. The interview was 
short and conclusive. 

The two officers had instructions to demand a serious 
duel, and Spicca and his companion had been told to 
make the conditions even more dangerous if they could 
do so. On the other hand, the officers explained that as 
Rome was in a state of siege, and Garibaldi almost at 
the gates, the encounter could not take place until the 
crisis was past. They undertook to appear for Gouache 
in case he chanced to be shot in an engagement. Spicca, 
who did not know the real cause of the duel, and was 
indeed somewhat surprised to learn that Giovanni had 
quarrelled with a Zouave, made no attempt to force an 
immediate meeting, but begged leave to retire and con- 


170 


sant’ ilario. 


suit with his principal, an informality which was of 
course agreed to by the other side. In five minutes he 
returned, stating that he accepted the provisions pro- 
posed, and that he should expect twenty-four hours’ 
notice when Gouache should be ready. The four gentle- 
men drew up the necessary “protocol,” and parted on 
friendly terms after a few minutes’ conversation, in 
which various proposals were made in regard to the 
ground. 

Spicca alone remained behind, and he immediately 
went to Giovanni, carrying a copy of the protocol, on 
which the ink was still wet. 

“Here it is,” he said sadly, as he entered the room, 
holding up the paper in his hand. “ These revolutions 
are very annoying! There is no end to the inconven- 
ience they cause.” 

“I suppose it could not be helped,” answered Gio- 
vanni, gloomily. 

“No. I believe I have not the reputation of wasting 
time in these matters. You must try and amuse your- 
self as best you can until the day comes. It is a pity 
you have not some other affair in the meanwhile, just to 
make the time pass pleasantly. It would keep your 
hand in, too. But then you have the pleasures of antici- 
pation.” 

Giovanni laughed hoarsely. Spicca took a foil from 
the wall and played with it, looking along the thin blade, 
then setting the point on the carpet and bending the 
weapon to see whether it would spring back properly. 
Giovanni’s eyes followed his movements, watching the 
slender steel, and then glancing at Spicca’ s long arms, 
his nervous fingers and peculiar grip. 

“ How do you manage to kill your man whenever you 
choose?” asked Sant’ Ilario, half idly, half in curiosity. 

“It is perfectly simple, at least with foils,” replied 
the other, making passes in the air. “Now, if you will 
take a foil, I will promise to run you through any part 
of your body within three minutes. You may make a 
chalked mark on the precise spot. If I miss by a hair’s- 
breadth I will let you lunge at me without guarding.” 

“ Thank you, ” said Giovanni ; “ I do not care to be run 
through this morning, but I confess I would like to know 


sant’ ilario. 171 

how you do it. Could not you touch the spot without 
thrusting home?’’ 

Certainly, if you do not mind a scratch on the shoul- 
der or the arm. I will try and not draw blood. Come 
on — so — in guard — wait a minute! Where will you 
be hit? That is rather important.” 

Giovanni, -who was in a desperate humour and cared 
little what he did, rather relished the idea of a bout 
which savoured of reality. There was a billiard-table 
in the adjoining room, and he fetched a piece of chalk 
at once. 

‘‘Here,” said he, making a small white spot upon his 
coat on the outside of his right shoulder. 

“Very well,” observed Spicca. “How, do not rush 
in or I may hurt you.” 

“Am I to thrust, too?” asked Giovanni. 

“If you like. You cannot touch me if you do.” 

“‘We shall see,” answered Sant’ Ilario, nettled at 
Spicca’ s poor opinion of his skill. “In guard! ” 

They fell into position and began play. Giovanni 
immediately tried his special method of disarming his 
adversary, which he had scarcely ever known to fail. 
He forgot, however, that Spicca had seen him practise 
this piece of strategy with success upon Del Derice. The 
melancholy duellist had spent weeks in studying the 
trick, and had completely mastered it. To Giovanni’s 
surprise the Count’s hand turned as easily as a ball in a 
socket, avoiding the pressure, while his point scarcely 
deviated from the straight line. Giovanni, angry at his 
failure, made a quick feint and a thrust, lunging to his 
full reach. Spicca parried as easily and carelessly as 
though the prince had been a mere beginner, and allowed 
the latter to recover himself before he replied. A full 
two seconds after Sant’ Ilario had resumed his guard, 
Spicca’ s foil ran over his with a speed that defied parry- 
ing, and he felt a short sharp prick in his right shoulder. 
Spicca sprang back and lowered his weapon. 

“I think that is the spot,” he said coolly, and then 
came forward and examined Giovanni’s coat. The point 
had penetrated the chalked mark in the centre, inflict- 
ing a wound not more than a quarter of an inch deep in 
the muscle of the shoulder. 


172 


sant’ ilakio. 


“Observe,” he continued, “that it was a simple tierce, 
without a feint or any trick whatever.” 

On realising his absolute inferiority to such a master 
of the art, Giovanni broke into a hearty laugh at his own 
discomfiture. So long as he had supposed that some 
sort of equality existed between them he had been angry 
at being outdone; but when he saw with what ease 
Spicca had accomplished his purpose, his admiration for 
the skill displayed made him forget his annoyance. 

“How in the world did you do it?” he said. “I 
thought I could parry a simple tierce, even though I 
might not be a match for you ! ” 

“Many people have thought the same, my friend. 
There are two or three elements in my process, one of 
which is my long reach. Another is the knack of thrust- 
ing very quickly, which is partly natural, and partly 
the result of practice. My trick consists in the way I 
hold my foil. Look here. I do not grasp the hilt with 
all my fingers as you do. The whole art of fencing lies 
in the use of the thumb and forefinger. I lay my fore- 
finger straight in the direction of the blade. Of course 
I cannot do it with a basket or a bell hilt, but no one 
ever objects to common foils. It is dangerous — yes — 
I might hurt my finger, but then, I am too quick. You 
ask the advantage? It is very simple. You and I and 
every one are accustomed, from childhood to point with 
the forefinger at things we see. The accuracy with 
which we point is much more surprising than you imag- 
ine. We instinctively aim the forefinger at the object 
to a hair ^s -breadth of exactness. I only make my point 
follow my forefinger. The important thing, then, is to 
grasp the hilt very firmly, and yet leave the wrist limber. 
I shoot in the same way with a revolver, and puli' the 
trigger with my middle finger. I scarcely ever miss. 
You might amuse yourself by trying these things while 
you are waiting for Gouache. They will make the time 
pass pleasantly.” 

Spicca, whose main pleasure in life was in the use of 
weapons, could not conceive of any more thoroughly 
delightful occupation. 

“ I will try it, ” said Giovanni, rubbing his shoulder a 
little, for the scratch irritated him. “ It is very inter- 


sant’ ilario. 


173 


esting. I hope that fellow will not go and have himself 
killed by the Garibaldians before I get a chance at him.” 

“You are absolutely determined to kill him, then?” 
Spicca’s voice, which had grown animated during his 
exposition of his method, now sank again to its habitu- 
ally melancholy tone. 

Giovanni only shrugged his shoulders at the question, 
as though any answer were needless. He hung the foil 
he had used in its place on the wall, and began to smoke. 

“You will not have another bout?” inquired the 
Count, putting away his weapon also, and taking his hat 
to go. 

“Thanks — not to-day. We shall meet soon, I hope. 
I am very grateful for your good offices, Spicca. I would 
ask you to stay to breakfast, but I do not want my father 
to know of this affair. He would suspect something if 
he saw you here.” 

“Yes,” returned the other quietly, “people generally 
do. I am rather like a public executioner in that respect. 
My visits often precede a catastrophe. What would you 
have? I am a lonely man.” 

“ You, who have so many friends ! ” exclaimed Gio- 
vanni. 

“ Bah ! It is time to be off, ” said Spicca, and shaking 
his friend’s hand hastily he left the room. 

Giovanni stood for several minutes after he had gone, 
wondering with a vague curiosity what this man’s history 
had been, as many had wondered before. There was a 
fatal savour of death about Spicca which everybody felt 
who came near him. He was dreaded, as one of the 
worst-tempered men and one of the most remarkable 
swordsmen in Europe. He was always consulted in 
affairs of honour, and his intimate acquaintance with 
the code, hm austere integrity, and his vast experience, 
made him invaluable in such matters. But he was not 
known to have any intimate friends among men or 
women. He neither gambled nor made love to other 
men’s wives, nor did any of those things which too easily 
lead to ^encounters of arms; and yet, in his cold and 
melancholy way he was constantly quarrelling and fight- 
ing and killing his man, till it was a wonder that the 
police would tolerate him in any European capital. It 


174 


sant’ ilario. 


was rumoured that he had a strange history, and that his 
life had been embittered in his early youth by some 
tragic circumstance, but no one could say what that 
occurrence had been nor where it had taken place. He 
felt an odd sympathy for Giovanni, and his reference to 
his loneliness in his parting speech was unique, and set 
his friend to wondering about him. 

Giovanni’s mind was now as much at rest as was pos- 
sible, under conditions which obliged him to postpone 
his vengeance for an indefinite period. He had passed 
a sleepless night after his efforts to find Gouache and had 
risen early in the morning to be sure of catching him. 
He had not seen his father since their interview of the 
previous evening, and had hoped not to see him again 
till the moment of leaving for Saracinesca. The old man 
had understood him, and that was all that was necessary 
foi* the present. He suspected that his father would not 
seek an interview any more than he did himself. But 
an obstacle had presented itself in the way of his depart- 
ure which he had not expected, and which irritated him 
beyond measure. Corona was ill. He did not know 
whether her ailment were serious or not, but it was 
evident that he could not force her to leave her bed and 
accompany him to the country, so long as the doctor 
declared that she could not be moved. When Spicca 
was gone, he did not know what to do with himself. He 
would not go and see his wife, for any meeting must be 
most unpleasant. He had nerved himself to conduct 
her to the mountains, and had expected that the long 
drive would be passed in a disagreeable silence. So long 
as Corona was well and strong, he could have succeeded 
well enough in treating her as he believed that she 
deserved. Now that she was ill, he felt how impossible 
it would be for him to take good care of her without 
seeming to relent, even if he did not relent in earnest; 
and on the other hand his really noble nature would have 
prevented him from being harsh in his manner to her 
while she was suffering. 

Until he had been convinced that a duel with^ouache 
was for the present impossible, his anger had supported 
him, and had made the time pass quickly throughout the 
sleepless night and through the events of the morning. 


sant’ ilakio. 


175 


Now that he was alone, with nothing to do but to meditate 
upon the situation, his savage humour forsook him and 
the magnitude of his misfortune oppressed him and nearly 
drove him mad. He went over the whole train of evi- 
dence again and again, and as often as he reviewed what 
had occurred, his conviction grew deeper and stronger, 
and he acknowledged that he had been deceived as man 
was never deceived before. He realised the boundless 
faith he had given to this woman who had betrayed him; 
he recollected the many proofs she had given him of her 
love; he drew upon the store of his past happiness and 
tortured himself with visions of what could never be 
again; he called up in fancy Corona’s face when he had 
led her to the altar and the very look in her eyes was 
again upon him ; he remembered that day more than two 
years ago when, upon the highest tower of Saracinesca, 
he had asked her to be his wife, and he knew not whether 
he desired to burn the memory of that first embrace from 
his heart, or to dwell upon the sweet recollection of that 
moment and suffer the wound of to-day to rankle more 
hotly by the horror of the comparison. When he thought 
of what she had been, it seemed impossible that she 
could have fallen ; when he saw what she had become he 
could not believe that she had ever been innocent. A 
baser man than Giovanni would have suffered more in his 
personal vanity, seeing that his idol had been degraded 
for a mere soldier of fortune — or for a clever artist — 
whichever Gouache called himself, and such a husband 
would have forgiven her more easily had she forsaken 
him for one of his own standing and rank. But Giovanni 
was far above and beyond the thought of comparing his 
enemy with himself. He was wounded in what he had 
held most sacred, which was his heart, and in what had 
grown to be the mainspring of his existence, his trust in 
the woman he loved. Those who readily believe are 
little troubled if one of their many little faiths be shaken; 
but men who believe in a few things, with the whole 
strength of their being, are hurt mortally when that on 
which they build their loyalty is shattered and over- 
turned. 

Giovanni was a just man, and was rarely carried away 
by appearances; least of all could he have shown any 


176 


sant’ ilarto. 


such, weakness when the yielding to it involved the 
destruction of all that he cared for in life. But the 
evidence was overwhelming, and no man could be blamed 
for accepting it. There was no link wanting in the 
chain, and the denials made by Corona and Anastase 
could not have influenced any man in his senses. What 
could a woman do but deny all? What was there for 
Gouache but to swear that the accusation was untrue? 
Would not any other man or woman have done as much? 
There was no denying it. The only person who remained 
unquestioned was Faustina Montevarchi. Either she 
was the innocent girl she appeared to be or not. If she 
were, how could Giovanni explain to her that she had 
been duped, and made an instrument in the hands of 
Gouache and Corona? She would not know what he 
meant. Even if she admitted that she loved Gouache, 
was it not clear that he had deceived her too, for the sake 
of making an accomplice of one who was constantly with 
Corona? Her love for the soldier could not explain the 
things that had passed between Anastase and Giovanni’s 
wife, which Giovanni had seen with his own eyes. It 
could not account for the whisperings, the furtive meet- 
ing and tender words of which he had been a witness in 
his own house. It could not do away with the letter 
and the pin-. But if Faustina were not innocent of 
assisting the two, she would deny everything, even as 
they had done. 

As he thought of all these matters and followed the 
cruelly logical train of reasoning forced upon him by the 
facts, a great darkness descended upon Giovanni’s heart, 
and he knew that his happiness was gone from him for 
ever. Henceforth nothing remained but to watch his 
wife jealously, and suffer his ills with the best heart he 
could. The very fact that he loved her still, with a 
passion that detied all things, added a terrible bitterness 
to what he had to bear, for it made him despise himself 
as none would have dared to despise him. 


sant’ ilario. 


177 


CHAPTER XII. 

As Giovanni sat in solitude in his room he was not 
aware that his father had received a visit from no less 
a personage than Prince Montevarchi. The latter found 
Saracinesca very much preoccupied, and in no mood for 
conversation, and consequently did not stay very long. 
When he went away, however, he carried under his arm 
a bundle of deeds and documents which he had long 
desired to see and in the perusal of which he promised 
himself to spend a very interesting day. He had come 
with the avowed object of getting them, and he neither 
anticipated nor met with any difficulty in obtaining what 
he wanted. He spoke of his daughter’s approaching 
marriage with San Giacinto, and after expressing his 
satisfaction at the alliance with the Saracinesca, remarked 
that his son-in-law had told him the story of the ancient 
deed, and begged permission to see it for himself. The 
request was natural, and Saracinesca was not suspicious 
at any time ; at present, he was too much occupied with 
his own most unpleasant reflections to attach any impor- 
tance to the incident. Montevarchi thought there was 
something wrong with his friend, but inasmuch as he 
had received the papers, he asked no questions and pres- 
ently departed with them, hastening homewards in order 
to lose no time in satisfying his curiosity. 

Two hours later he was still sitting in his dismal study 
with the manuscripts before him. He had ascertained 
what he wanted to know, namely, that the papers really 
existed and were drawn up in a legal form. He had hoped 
to find a rambling agreement, made out principally by 
the parties concerned, and copied with some improve- 
ments by the family notary of the time, for he had made 
up his mind that if any flaw could be discovered in 
the deed San Giacinto should become Prince Saracin- 
esca, and should have possession of all the immense 
wealth that belonged to the family. San Giacinto was 
the heir in the direct line, and although his great-grand- 
father had relinquished his birthright in the firm ex- 
pectation of having no children, the existence of his 

N 


178 


sant’ ilario. 


descendants miglit greatly modify the provisions of the 
agreement. 

Montevarchi’s face fell when he had finished decipher- 
ing the principal document. The provisions and condi- 
tions were short and concise, and were contained upon 
one large sheet of parchment, signed, witnessed and 
bearing the official seal and signature which proved that 
it had been ratified. 

It was set forth therein that Don Leone Saracinesca, be- 
ing the eldest son of Don Giovanni Saracinesca, deceased, 
Prince of Saracinesca, of SanP Ilario and of Torleone, 
Duke of Barda, and possessor of many other titles. 
Grandee of Spain of the first class and Count of the Holy 
Roman Empire, did of his own free will, by his own 
motion and will, make over and convey to, and bestow 
upon, Don Orsino Saracinesca, his younger and only 
brother, the principalities of Saracinesca — here followed 
a complete list of the various titles and estates — includ- 
ing the titles, revenues, seigneurial rights, appanages, 
holdings, powers and so\ oreignty attached to and belong- 
ing to each and every one, to him, the aforesaid Don 
Orsino Saracinesca and to the heirs of his body in the 
male line direct for ever. 

Here there was a stop, and the manuscript began again 
at the top of the other side of the sheet. The next clause 
contained the solitary provision to the effect that Don 
Leone reserved to himself the estate and title of San 
Giacinto in the kingdom of Naples, which at his death, 
he having no children, should revert to the aforesaid 
Don Orsino Saracinesca and his heirs for ever. It was 
further stated that the agreement was wholly of a friendly 
character, and that Don Leone bound himself to take no 
steps whatever to reinstate himself in the titles and 
possessions which, of his own free will, he relinquished, 
the said agreement being, in the opinion of both parties, 
for the advantage of the whole house of Saracinesca. 

‘‘He bound himself, not his descendants,” remarked 
Montevarchi at last, as he again bent his head over the 
document and examined the last clause. “ And he says 
‘having no children ’ — in Latin the words may mean in 
case he had none, being in the ablative absolute. Hav- 
ing no children, to Orsino and his heirs for ever — but 


sant’ ilakio. 


179 


since he had a son, the case is altered. Ay, hut that 
clause in the first part says to Orsino and his heirs for 
ever, and says nothing about Leone having no children. 
It is more absolute than the ablative. That is bad.’^ 

For a long time he pondered over the writing. The 
remaining documents were merely transfers of the indi- 
vidual estates, in each of which it was briefly stated that 
the property in question was conveyed in accordance 
with the conditions of the main deed. There was no 
difficulty there. The Saracinesca inheritance depended 
solely on the existence of this one piece of parchment, 
aud of the copy or registration of it in the government 
offices. Montevarchi glanced at the candle that stood 
before him in a battered brass candlestick, and his old 
heart beat a little faster than usual. To burn the sheet 
of parchment, and then deny on oath that he had ever 
seen it — it was very simple. Saracinesca would And it 
hard to prove the existence of the thing. Montevarchi 
hesitated, and then laughed at himself for his folly. It 
would be necessary first to ascertain what there was at 
t le Chancery office, otherwise he would be ruining him- 
self for nothing. That was certainly the most important 
step at present. He pondered over the matter for some 
time and then rose from his chair. 

As he stood before the table he glanced once more at 
the sheet. As though the greater distance made it more 
clear to his old sight, he noticed that there was a blank 
space, capable of containing three lines of writing like 
what was above, while still leaving a reasonable margin 
at the bottom of the page. As the second clause was 
the shorter, the scribe had doubtless thought it better to 
begin afresh on the other side. 

Montevarchi sat down again, and took a large sheet of 
paper and a pen. He rapidly copied the first clause to 
the end, but after the words ‘‘ in the male line direct for 
ever” his pen still ran on. The deed then read as fol- 
lows : — 

^^ ... In the male line direct for ever, provided 
that the aforesaid Don Leone Saracinesca shall have no 
son born to him in wedlock, in which case, and if such 
a son be born, this present deed is wholly null, void and 
ineffectual.” 


180 


sant’ ilakio. 


Montevarchi did not stop here. He carefully copied 
the remainder as it stood, to the last word. Then he 
put away the original and read what he had written very 
slowly and carefully. With the addition it was perfectly 
clear that San Giacinto must be considered to be the 
lawful and only Prince Saracinesca. 

“ How well those few words would look at the bottom 
of the page!” exclaimed the old man half aloud. He 
sat still and gloated in imagination over the immense 
wealth which would thus be brought into his family. 

“ They shall be there — they must be there ! ” he mut- 
tered at last. “ Millions ! millions ! After all it is only 
common justice. The old reprobate would never have 
disinherited his son if he had expected to have one.” 

His long thin fingers crooked themselves and scratched 
the shabby green baize that covered the table, as though 
heaping together little piles of money, and then hiding 
them under the palm of his hand. 

“Even if there is a copy,” he said again under his 
breath, “ the little work will look as prettily upon it as 
on this — if only the sheets are the same size and there 
is the same space,” he added, his face falling again at 
the disagreeable reflection that the duplicate might differ 
in some respect from the original. 

The plan was simple enough in appearance, and pro- 
vided that the handwriting could be successfully forged, 
there was no reason why it should not succeed. The 
man who could do it, if he would, was in the house at 
that moment, and Montevarchi knew it. Arnoldo Mes- 
chini, the shrivelled little secretary and librarian, who 
had a profound knowledge of the law and spent his days 
as well as most of his nights in poring over crabbed 
manuscripts, was the very person for such a piece of 
work. He understood the smallest variations in hand- 
writing which belonged to different periods, and the 
minutest details of old-fashioned penmanship were as 
familiar to him as the common alphabet. But would he 
do it? Would he undertake the responsibility of a 
forgery of which the success would produce such tre- 
mendous responsibilities, of which the failure would 
involve such awful disgrace? Montevarchi had reasons 
of his own for believing that Arnoldo Meschini would do 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


181 


anything he was ordered to do, and would moreover keep 
the secret faithfully. Indeed, as far as discretion was 
concerned, he would, in case of exposure, have to bear 
the penalty. Montevarchi would arrange that. If dis- 
covered it would be easy for him to pretend that being 
unable to read the manuscript he had employed his 
secretary to do so, and that the latter, in the hope of 
reward, had gratuitously imposed upon the prince and 
the courts of law before whom the case would be tried. 

One thing was necessary. San Giacinto must never 
see the documents until they were produced as evidence. 
In the first place it was important that he, who was the 
person nearest concerned, should be in reality perfectly 
innocent, and should be himself as much deceived as any 
one. Nothing impresses judges like real and unaffected 
innocence. Secondly, if he were consulted, it was 
impossible to say what view he might take of the mat- 
ter. Montevarchi suspected him of possessing some of 
the hereditary boldness of the Saracinesca. He might 
refuse to be a party in a deception, even though he him- 
self was to benefit by it, a consideration which chilled 
the old man’s blood and determined him at once to con- 
fide the secret to no one but Arnoldo Meschini, who was 
completely in his power. 

The early history of this remarkable individual was 
uncertain. He had received an excellent education and 
it is no exaggeration to call him learned, for he possessed 
a surprising knowledge of ancient manuscripts and a 
great experience in everything connected with this branch 
of archaeology. It was generally believed that he had 
been bred to enter the church, but he himself never 
admitted that he had been anything more than a scholar 
in a religious seminary. He had subsequently studied 
law and had practised for some time, when he had sud- 
denly abandoned his profession in order to accept the 
ill-paid post of librarian and secretary to the father of 
the present Prince Montevarchi. Probably his love of 
mediaeval lore had got the better of his desire for money, 
and during the five and twenty years he had spent in the 
palace he had never been heard to complain of his condi- 
tion. He lived in a small chamber in the attic and 
passed his days in the library, winter and summer alike. 


182 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


perpetually poring over tlie manuscripts and making 
endless extracts in his odd, old-fashioned handwriting. 
The result of his labours was never published, and at 
first sight it would have been hard to account for his 
enormous industry and for the evident satisfaction he de- 
rived from his work. The nature of the man, however, 
was peculiar, and his occupation was undoubtedly conge- 
nial to him, and far more profitable than it appeared to be. 

Arnoldo Meschini was a forger. He was one of that 
band of manufacturers of antiquities who have played 
such a part in the dealings of foreign collectors during 
the last century, and whose occupation, though slow and 
laborious, occasionally produces immense profits. He had 
not given up his calling with the deliberate intention of 
resorting to this method of earning a subsistence, but 
had drifted into his evil practices by degrees. In the 
first instance he had quitted the bar in consequence of 
having been connected with a scandalous case of extor- 
tion and blackmailing, in which he had been suspected 
of constructing forged documents for his client, though 
the crime had not been proved against him. His repu- 
tation, however, had been ruined, and he had been forced 
to seek his bread elsewhere. It chanced that the former 
librarian of the Montevarchi died at that time and that 
the prince was in search of a learned man ready to give 
his services for a stipend about equal to the wages of a 
footman. Meschini presented himself and got the place. 
The old prince was delighted with him and agreed to 
forget the aforesaid disgrace he had incurred, in consid- 
eration of his exceptional qualities. He set himself 
systematically to study the contents of the ancient 
library, with the intention of publishing the contents of 
the more precious manuscripts, and for two or three 
years he pursued his object with this laudable purpose, 
and with the full consent of his employer. 

One day a foreign newspaper fell into his hands con- 
taining an account of a recent sale in which sundry old 
manuscripts had brought large prices. A new idea 
crossed his mind, and the prospect of unexpected wealth 
unfolded itself to his imagination. For several months 
he studied even more industriously than before, until, 
having made up his mind, he began to attempt the 


sant’ ilario. 


183 


reproduction of a certain valuable writing dating from the 
fourteenth century. He worked in his own room during 
the evening and allowed no one to see what he was 
doing, for although it was rarely that the old prince 
honoured the library with a visit, yet Meschini was 
inclined to run no risks, and proceeded in his task with 
the utmost secrecy. 

Nothing could exceed the care he showed in the prep- 
aration and use of his materials. One of his few 
acquaintances was a starving, but clever chemist, who 
kept a dingy shop in the neighbourhood of the Ponte 
Quattro Capi. To this poor man he applied in order to 
obtain a knowledge of the ink used in the old writings. 
He professed himself anxious to get all possible details 
on the subject for a work he was preparing upon mediae- 
val calligraphy, and his friend soon set his mind at rest 
by informing him that if the ink contained any metallic 
parts he would easily detect them, but that if it was 
composed of animal and vegetable matter it would be 
almost impossible to give a satisfactory analysis. At the 
end of a few days Meschini was in possession of a recipe 
for concocting what he wanted, and after numerous 
experiments, in the course of which he himself acquired 
great practical knowledge of the subject, he succeeded 
in producing an ink apparently in all respects similar to 
that used by the scribe whose work he proposed to copy. 
He had meanwhile busied himself with the preparation 
of parchment, which is by no means an easy matter when 
it is necessary to give it the colour and consistency of 
very ancient skin. He learned that the ligneous acids 
contained in the smoke of wood could be easily detected, 
and it was only through the assistance of the chemist 
that he finally hit upon the method of staining the sheets 
with a thin broth of untanned leather, of which the analy- 
sis would give a result closely approaching that of the 
parchment itself. Moreover, he made all sorts of trials 
of quill pens, until he had found a method of cutting 
which produced the exact thickness of stroke required, 
and during the whole time he exercised himself in copy- 
ing and recopying many pages of the manuscript upon 
common paper, in order to familiarise himself with the 
method of forming the letters. 


184 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


It was nearly two years before he felt himself able to 
begin his first imitation, but the time and study he had 
expended were not lost, and the result surpassed his expec- 
tations. So ingeniously perfect was the facsimile when 
finished that Meschini himself would have found it hard 
to swear to the identity of the original if he had not been 
allowed to see either of the two for some time. The 
minutest stains were reproduced with scrupulous fidelity. 
The slightest erasure was copied minutely. He examined 
every sheet to ascertain exactly how it had been worn by 
the fingers rubbing on the corners and spent days in 
turning a page thousands of times, till the oft-repeated 
touch of his thumb had deepened the colour to the exact 
tint. 

When the work was finished he hesitated. It seemed 
to him very perfect, but he feared lest he should be 
deceiving himself from having seen the thing daily for 
so many months. He took his copy one day to a famous 
collector, and submitted it to him for examination, asking 
at the same time what it was worth. The specialist 
spent several hours in examining the writing, and pro- 
nounced it very valuable, naming a large sum, while 
admitting that he was unable to buy it himself. 

Arnoldo Meschini took his work home with him, and 
spent a day in considering what he should do. Then he 
deliberately placed the facsimile in his employer’s li- 
brary, and sold the original to a learned man who was 
collecting for a great public institution in a foreign 
country. His train of reasoning was simple, for he said 
to himself that the forgery was less likely to be detected 
in the shelves of the Montevarchi’s palace than if put 
into the hands of a body of famous scientists who natur- 
ally distrusted what was brought to them. Collectors do 
not ask questions as to whence a valuable thing has been 
taken; they only examine whether it be genuine and 
worth the money. 

Emboldened by his success, the forger had continued 
to manufacture facsimiles and sell originals for nearly 
twenty years, during which he succeeded in producing 
nearly as many copies, and realised a sum which to him 
appeared enormous and which was certainly not to be 
despised by any one. Some of the works he sold were 


sant’ ilario. 


185 


published and annotated by great scholars, some were 
jealously guarded in the libraries of rich amateurs, who 
treasured them with all the selhsh vigilance of the 
bibliomaniac. In the meanwhile Meschini^s learning 
and skill constantly increased, till he possessed an almost 
diabolical skill in the art of imitating ancient writings, 
and a familiarity with the subject which amazed the men 
of learning who occasionally obtained permission to enter 
the library and study there. Upon these, too, Meschini 
now and then experimented with his forgeries, not one 
of which was ever detected. 

Prince Montevarchi saw in his librarian only a poor 
wretch whose passion for ancient literature seemed to 
dominate his life and whose untiring industry had made 
him master of the very secret necessary in the present 
instance. He knew that such things as he contemplated 
had been done before and he supposed that they had been 
done by just such men as Arnoldo Meschini. He knew 
the history of the man’s early disgrace and calculated 
wisely enough that the fear of losing his situation on the 
one hand, and the hope of a large reward on the other, 
would induce him to undertake the job. To all appear- 
ances he was as poor as when he had entered the service 
of the prince’s father five and twenty years earlier. The 
promise of a few hundred scudi, thought Montevarchi, 
would have immense weight with such a man. In his 
eagerness to accomplish his purpose, the nobleman never 
suspected that the offer would be refused by a fellow 
who had narrowly escaped being convicted of forgery in 
his youth, and whose poverty was a matter concerning 
which no doubt could exist. 

Montevarchi scarcely hesitated before going to the 
library. If he paused at all, it was more to consider the 
words he intended to use than to weigh in his mind 
the propriety of using them. The library was a vast old 
hall, surrounded on all sides, and nearly to the ceiling, 
with carved bookcases of walnut blackened with age to the 
colour of old mahogany. There were a number of mas- 
sive tables in the room, upon which the light fell agreeably 
from high clerestory windows at each end of the apart- 
ment. Meschini himself was shuffling along in a pair of 
ancient leather slippers with a large volume under his 


186 


sant’ ilario. 


arm, clad in very threadbare black clothes and wearing 
a dingy skullcap on his head. He was a man somewhat 
under the middle size, badly made, though possessing 
considerable physical strength. His complexion was of 
a muddy yellow, disagreeable to see, but his features 
rendered him interesting if not sympathetic. The brow 
was heavy and the gray eyebrows irregular and bushy, 
but his gray eyes were singularly clear and bright, be- 
traying a hidden vitality which would not have been sus- 
pected from the whole impression he made. A high 
forehead, very prominent in the upper and middle part, 
contracted below, so that there was very little breadth at 
the temples, but considerable expanse above. The eyes 
were near together and separated by the knifelike bridge 
of the nose, the latter descending in a hne curve of won- 
derfully delicate outline. The chin was pointed, and the 
compressed mouth showed little or nothing of the lips. 
On each side of his head the coarsely-shaped and prom- 
inent ears contrasted disagreeably with the fine keenness 
of the face. He stooped a little from the neck, and his 
shoulders sloped in a way that made them look narrower 
than they really were. 

As the prince closed the door behind him and advanced, 
Meschini lifted his cap a little and laid down the book he 
was carrying, wondering inwardly what had brought his 
employer to see him at that hour of the morning. 

“ Sit down, ” said Montevarchi, with more than usual 
affability, and setting the example by seating himself 
upon one of the high-backed chairs which were ranged 
along the tables. “ Sit down, Meschini, and let us have 
a little conversation.’’ 

“Willingly, Signor Principe,” returned the librarian, 
obeying the command and placing himself opposite to 
the prince. 

“I have been thinking about you this morning,” con- 
tinued the latter. “You have been with us a very long 
time. Let me see. How many years? Eighteen? 
Twenty? ” 

“Twenty-five years. Excellency. It is a long time, 
indeed ! ” 

“Twenty-five years! Dear me! How the thought 
takes me back to my poor father ! Heaven bless him, he 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


187 


was a good man. But, as I was saying, Meschini, you 
have been with us many years, and we have not done 
much for you. No. Do not protest! I know your modesty, 
but one must be just before all things. I think you draw 
fifteen scudi a month? Yes. I have a good memory, you 
see. I occupy myself with the cares of my household. 
But you are not so young as you were once, my friend, 
and your faithful services de^serve to be rewarded. Shall 
we say thirty scudi a month in future? To continue all 
your life, even if — heaven avert it — you should ever 
become disabled from superintending the library — yes, 
all your life.” 

Meschini bowed as he sat in acknowledgment of so 
much generosity, and assumed a grateful expression 
suitable to the occasion. In reality, his salary was of 
very little importance to him, as compared with what he 
realised from his illicit traffic in manuscripts. But, like 
his employer, he was avaricious, and the prospect of 
three hundred and sixty scudi a year was pleasant to 
contemplate. He bowed and smiled. 

I do not deserve so much liberality. Signor Principe,” 
he said. My poor services ” 

^‘Very far from poor, my dear friend, very far from 
poor,” interrupted Montevarchi. ^‘Moreover, if you will 
have confidence in me, you can do me a very great service 
indeed. But it is indeed a very private matter. You are 
a discreet man, however, and have few friends. You are 
not given to talking idly of what concerns no one but 
yourself.” 

‘‘No, Excellency,” replied Meschini, laughing inwardly 
as he thought of the deceptions he had been practising 
with success during a quarter of a century. 

“Well, well, this is a matter between ourselves, and 
one which, as you will see, will bring its own reward. 
Eor although it might not pass muster in a court of law 
— the courts you know, Meschini, are very sensitive 

about little things ” he looked keenly at his coin- 

pan ion, whose eyes were cast down. 

“Foolishly sensitive,” echoed the librarian. 

“Yes. I may say that in the present instance, al- 
though the law might think differently of the matter, 
we shall be doing a good deed, redressing a great injus- 


188 


sant’ ilario. 


tice, restoring to the fatherless his birthright, in a word 
fulfilling the will of Heaven, while perhaps paying little 
attention to the laws of man. Man, my friend, is often 
very unjust in his wisdom.’^ 

“Very. I can only applaud your Excellency’s senti- 
ments, which do justice to a man of heart.” 

“No, no, I want no praise,” replied the prince in a 
tone of deprecation. “ What I need in order to accom- 
plish this good action is your assistance and friendly 
help. To whom should I turn, but to the old and confi- 
dential friend of the family? To a man whose knowledge 
of the matter on hand is only equalled by his fidelity to 
those who have so long employed him?” 

“You are very good. Signor Principe. I will do my 
best to serve you, as I have served you and his departed 
Excellency, the Signor Principe, your father.” 

“Very well, Meschini. Now I need only repeat that 
the reward for your services will be great, as I trust that 
hereafter your recompense may be adequate for having 
had a share in so good a deed. But, to be short, the 
best way to acquaint you with the matter is to show you 
this document which I have brought for the purpose.” 

Montevarchi produced the famous deed and carefully 
unfolded it upon the table. Then, after glancing over it 
once more, he handed it to the librarian. The latter bent 
his keen eyes upon the page and rapidly deciphered the 
contents. Then he read it through a second time and at 
last laid it down upon the table and looked up at the 
prince with an air of inquiry. 

“You see, my dear Meschini,” said Montevarchi in 
suave tones, “ this agreement was made by Don Leone 
Saracinesca because he expected to have no children. 
Had he foreseen what was to happen — for he has legit- 
imate descendants alive, he would have added a clause 
here, at the foot of the first page — do you see? The clause 
he would have added would have been very short — some- 
thing like this, ‘Provided that the aforesaid Don Leone 
Saracinesca shall have no son born to him in wedlock, in 
which case, and if such a son be born, this present deed is 
wholly null, void and ineffectual.’ Do you follow me? ” 
“Perfectly,” replied Meschini, with a strange look in 
his eyes. He again took the parchment and looked it 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


189 


over, mentally inserting the words suggested by his em- 
ployer. “ If those words were inserted, there could be no 
question about the view the tribunals would take. But 
there must be a duplicate of the deed at the Cancellaria.” 

‘‘ Perhaps. I leave that to your industry to discover. 
Meanwhile, I am sure you agree with me that a piece of 
horrible injustice has been caused by this document ; a 
piece of injustice, I repeat, which it is our sacred duty 
to remedy and set right.” 

‘‘ You propose to me to introduce this clause, as I un- 
derstand, in this document and in the original,” said the 
librarian, as though he wished to be quite certain of the 
nature of the scheme. 

Montevarchi turned his eyes away and slowly scratched 
the table with his long nails. 

“ I mean to say, ” he answered in a lower voice, that 
if it could be made out in law that it was the intention 
of the person, of Don Leone ” 

“Let us speak plainly,” interrupted Meschini. “We 
are alone. It is of no use to mince matters here. The 
only away to accomplish what you desire is to forge the 
words in both parchments. The thing can be done, and 
I can do it. It will be successful, without a shadow of 
a doubt. But I must have my price. There must be no 
misunderstanding. I do not think much of your consid- 
erations of justice, but I will do what you require, for 
money.” 

“How much?” asked Montevarchi in a thick voice. 
His heart misgave him, for he had placed himself in the 
man’s power, and Meschini’s authoritative tone showed 
that the latter knew it, and meant to use his advantage. 

“ I will be moderate, for I am a poor man. You shall 
giv§ me twenty thousand scudi in cash, on the day the 
verdict is given in favour of Don Giovanni Saracinesca, 
Marchese di San Giacinto. That is your friend’s name, 
I believe.” 

Montevarchi started as the librarian named the sum, 
and he turned very pale, passing his bony hand upon the 
edge of the table. 

“I would not have expected this of you!” he ex- 
claimed. 

“You have your choice,” returned the other, bringing 


190 


sant’ ilario. 


Lis yellow face nearer to his employer’s and speaking 
very distinctly. “ You know what it all means. Sara- 
cinesca, Sant’ Ilario, and Barda to your son-in-law, 
besides all the rest, amounting perhaps to several mil- 
lions. To me, who get you all this, a paltry twenty 

thousand. Or else ” he paused and his bright eyes 

seemed to penetrate into Montevarchi’s soul. The lat- 
ter’s face exhibited a sudden terror, which Meschini 
understood. 

‘‘Or else?” said the prince. “Or else, I suppose you 
will try and intimidate me by threatening to expose what 
I have told you? ” 

“Not at all. Excellency,” replied the old scholar with 
sudden humility. “ If you do not care for the bargain 
let us leave it alone. I am only your faithful servant, 
Signor Principe. Do not suspect me of such ingratitude! 
I only say that if we undertake it, the plan will be suc- 
cessful. It is for you to decide. Millions or no millions, 
it is the same to me. I am but a -poor student. But if 
I help to get them for you — or for your son-in-law — I 
must have what I asked. It is not one per cent — scarcely 
a broker’s commission ! And you will have so much. Not 
but what your Excellency deserves it all, and is the best 
judge.” 

“One per cent?” muttered Montevarchi. “Perhaps 
not more than half per cent. But is it safe?” he asked 
suddenly, his fears all at once asserting themselves with 
a force that bewildered him. 

“ Leave all that to me,” answered Meschini confidently. 
“ The insertion shall be made, unknown to any one, in 
this parchment and in the one in the Chancery. The 
documents shall be returned to their places with no 
observation, and a month or two later the Marchese di 
San Giacinto can institute proceedings for the recovery 
of his birthright. I would only advise you not to men- 
tion the matter to him. It is essential that he should be 
quite innocent in order that the tribunal may suspect 
nothing. You and I, Signor Principe, can stay at home 
while the case is proceeding. We shall not even see the 
Signor Marchese’s lawyers, for what have we to do with 
it all? But the Signor Marchese himself must be really 
free from all blame, or he Avill show a weak point. Now, 


sant’ ilaeio. 


191 


when all is ready, he should go to the Cancellaria and 
examine the papers there for himself. He himself will 
suspect nothing. He will be agreeably surprised.’’ 

“ And how long will it take you to do the — the 
work? ” asked Montevarchi in hesitating tones. 

“ Let me see, ” Meschini began to make a calculation 
under his breath. “Ink, two days — preparing parch- 
ment for experiments, a week — writing, twice over, two 
days — giving age, drying and rubbing, three days, at 
least. Two, nine, eleven, fourteen. A fortnight,” he 
said aloud. “ I cannot do it in less time than that. If 
the copy in the Chancery is by another hand it will take 
longer.” 

“But how can you work at the Chancery?” asked the 
prince, as though a new objection had presented itself. 

“ Have no fear. Excellency. I will manage it so that 
no one shall find it out. Two visits will suffice. Shall 
I begin at once? Is it agreed?” 

Montevarchi was silent for several minutes, and his 
hands moved uneasily. 

“Begin at once,” he said at last, as though forcing 
himself to make a determination. He rose to go as he 
spoke. 

“Twenty thousand scudi on the day the verdict is 
given in favour of the Signor Marchese. Is that it? ” 

“Yes, yes. That is it. I leave it all to you.” 

“I will serve your Excellency faithfully, never fear.” 

“Ho, Meschini. Yes. Be faithful as you have always 
been. Beniember, I am not avaricious. It is in the 
cause of sound justice that I stoop to assume the appear- 
ance of dishonesty. Can a man do more? Can one go 
farther than to lose one’s self-esteem by appearing to 
transgress the laws of honour in order to accomplish a 
good object; for the sake of restoring the birthright to 
the fatherless and the portion to the widow, or indeed to 
the widower, in this case? No, my dear friend. The 
means are more than justified by the righteousness of our 
purpose. Believe me, my good Meschini — yes, you are 
good in the best sense of the word — believe me, the jus- 
tice of this world is not always the same as the justice 
of Heaven. The dispensations of providence are mys- 
terious.” 


192 


sant’ ilario. 


‘‘And must remain so, in this case,” observed the 
librarian with an evil smile. 

“Yes, unfortunately, in tbis case we shall not reap 
the worldly praise which so kind an action undoubtedly 
deserves. But we must have patience under these trials. 
Good-bye, Meschini, good-bye, my friend. I must busy 
myself with the affairs of my household. Every man 
must do his duty in this world, you know.” 

The scholar bowed his employer to the door, and then 
went back to the parchment, which he studied attentively 
for more than an hour, keeping a huge folio volume open 
before him, into which he might slip the precious deed 
in case he were interrupted in his occupation. 


CHAPTER XIIT. 

Sant’ Ilario could not realise that the course of events 
had been brought to a standstill at the very moment 
when his passions were roused to fury. He could not 
fight Gouache for the present and Corona was so ill that 
he could not see her. Had he wished to visit her, the old- 
fashioned physician would probably have forbidden him 
to do so, but in reality he was glad to be spared the emo- 
tions of a meeting which must necessarily be inconclu- 
sive. His first impulse had been to take her away from 
Rome and force her to live alone with him in the moun- 
tains. He felt that no other course was open to him, 
for he knew that in spite of all that had happened he 
could not bear to live without her, and yet he felt that 
he could no longer suffer her to come and go in the midst 
of society, where she must necessarily often meet the 
man she had chosen to love. Nor could he keep her in 
Rome and at the same time isolate her as he desired to 
do. If the world must talk, he would rather not be 
where he could hear what it said. The idea of a sudden 
journey, terminating in the gloomy fortress of Saracin- 
esca, was pleasant to his humour. The old place was 
ten times more grim and dismal in winter than in sum- 


sant’ ilario. 


193 


mer, and in his savage mood he fancied himself alone 
with his wife in the silent halls, making her feel the 
enormity of what she had done, while jealously keeping 
her a prisoner at his mercy. 

But her illness had put a stop to his plans for her 
safety, while the revolution had effectually interfered 
with the execution of his vengeance upon Gouache. He 
could find no occupation which might distract his mind 
from the thoughts that beset him, and no outlet for the 
restless temper that craved some sort of action, no matter 
what, as the expression of what he suffered. He and his 
father met in silence at their meals, and though Gio- 
vanni felt that he had the old man’s full sympathy, he 
could not bring himself to speak of what was nearest to 
his heart. He remembered that his marriage had been 
of his own seeking, and his pride kept him from all men- 
tion of the catastrophe by which his happiness had been 
destroyed. Old Saracinesca suffered in his own way 
almost as much as his son, and it was fortunate that he 
was prevented from seeing Corona at that time, for it is 
not probable that he would have controlled himself had 
he been able to talk with her alone. When little Orsino 
was brought in to them, the two men looked at each other, 
and while the younger bit his lip and suppressed all out- 
ward signs of his agony, the tears more than once stole 
into the old prince’s eyes so that he would turn away and 
leave the room. Then Giovanni would take the child 
upon his knee and look at it earnestly until the little 
thing was frightened and held out its arms to its nurse, 
crying to be taken away. Thereupon Sant’ Ilario’s mood 
grew more bitter than before, for he was foolish enough 
to believe that the child had a natural antipathy for him, 
and would grow up to hate the sight of its father. Those 
were miserable days, never to be forgotten, and each 
morning and evening brought worse news of Corona’s 
state, until it was clear, even to Giovanni, that she was 
dangerously ill. The sound of voices grew rare in the 
Palazzo Saracinesca and the servants moved noiselessly 
about at their work, oppressed by the sense of coming 
disaster, and scarcely speaking to each other. 

San Giacinto came daily to make inquiries and spent 
some time with the two unhappy men without wholly 

o 


194 


sant’ ilario. 


understanding what was passing. He was an astute man, 
but not possessed of the delicacy of feeling whereby real 
sympathy sometimes reaches the truth by its own intui- 
tive reasoning. Moreover, he was wholly ignorant of 
having played a very important part in bringing about 
the troubles which now beset Casa Saracinesca. No one 
but himself knew how he had written the note that had 
caused such disastrous results, and he had no intention 
of confiding his exploit to any one of his acquaintance. 
He had of course not been able to ascertain whether the 
desired effect had been produced, for he did not know at 
w^hat church the meeting between Faustina and Gouache 
was to take place, and he was too cunning to follow her 
as a spy when he had struck so bold a blow at her affec- 
tion for the artist-soldier. His intellect was keen, but 
his experience had not been of a high order, and he 
naturally thought that she would reason as he had rea- 
soned himself, if she chanced to see him while she was 
waiting for the man she loved. She knew that he was 
to marry her sister, and that he might therefore be sup- 
posed to disapprove of an affair which could only lead to 
a derogatory match for herself, and he had therefore 
carefully abstained from following her on that Sunday 
morning when she had met Anastase. 

Nevertheless he could see that something had occurred 
in his cousin^s household which was beyond his compre- 
hension, for Coronals illness was not alone enough to 
account for the manner of the Saracinesca. It is a social 
rule in Italy that a person suffering from any calamity 
must be amused, and San Giacinto used what talents he 
possessed in that direction, doing all he could to make 
the time hang less heavily on Giovanni’s hands. He 
made a point of gathering all the news of the little war 
in order to repeat it in minute detail to his cousins. He 
even prevailed upon Giovanni to walk with him some- 
times in the middle of the day, and Sant’ Ilario seemed 
to take a languid interest in the barricades erected at the 
gates of the city, and in the arrangements for maintain- 
ing quiet within the walls. Nome presented a strange 
aspect in those days. All who were not Eomans kept 
their national flags permanently hung from their win- 
dows, as a sort of protection in .case tlie mob should rise, 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


195 


or in the event of the Garibaldians suddenly seizing the 
capital. Patrols marched everywhere about the streets 
and mounted gendarmes were stationed at the corners of 
the principal squares and at intervals along the main 
thoroughfares. Strange to say, the numerous flags and 
uniforms that were to be seen produced an air of festivity 
strongly at variance with the actual state of things, and 
belied by the anxious expressions visible in the faces of 
the inhabitants. All these sights interested San Gia- 
cinto, whose active temperament made him very much 
alive to what went on around him, and even Giovanni 
thought less of his great sorrow when he suffered himself 
to be led out of the house by his cousin. 

When at last it was known that the French troops were 
on their way from Civita Vecchia, the city seemed to 
breathe more freely. General Kanzler, the commander- 
in-chief of the Pontiflcal forces, had done all that was 
humanly possible to concentrate his little army, and the 
arrival of even a small body of Frenchmen made it cer- 
tain that Garibaldi could be met with a fair chance of 
success. Of all who rejoiced at the prospect of a deci- 
sive action, there was no one more sincerely delighted 
than Anastase Gouache. 

So long as the state of siege lasted and he was obliged 
to follow the regular round of his almost mechanical 
duty, he was unable to take any step in the direction 
whither all his hopes tended, and he lived in a state of 
perpetual suspense. It was a small consolation that he 
found time to reflect upon the difliculties of his situation 
and to revolve in his mind the language he should use 
when he went to ask the hand of Montevarchi’s daughter. 
He was fully determined to take this bold step, and 
though he realised the many objections which the old 
prince would certainly raise against the match, he had 
not the slightest doubt of his power to overcome them 
all. He could not imagine what it would be like to fail, 
and he cherished and reared what should have been but 
a slender hope until it seemed to be a certainty. The 
unexpected quarrel thrust upon him by Sant’ Ilario 
troubled him very little, for he was too hopeful by nature 
to expect any serious catastrophe, and he more than once 
laughed to himself when he thought Giovanni was really 


196 


sant’ ilaeio. 


jealous of him. The feeling of reverence and respectful 
admiration which he had long entertained for Corona was 
so far removed from love as to make Giovanni’s wratli 
appear ridiculous. He would far sooner have expected 
a challenge from one of Faustina’s brothers than from 
Corona’s husband, but, since Sant’ Ilario had determined 
to quarrel, there was no help for it, and he must give 
him all satisfaction as soon as possible. That Giovanni 
had insulted him by entering his lodgings unbidden, and 
by taking certain objects away which were practically 
the artist’s property, was a minor consideration, since it 
was clear that Giovanni had acted all along under an 
egregious misapprehension. One thing alone puzzled 
Anastase, and that was the letter itself. It seemed to 
refer to his meeting with Faustina, but she had made no 
mention of it when he had seen her in the church. 
Gouache did not suspect Giovanni of having concocted 
the note for any purposes of his own, and quite believed 
that he had found it as he had stated, but the more the 
artist tried to explain the existence of the letter, the 
further he found himself from any satisfactory solution 
of the question. He interrogated his landlady, but she 
would say nothing about it, for the temptation of Gio- 
vanni’s money sealed her lips. 

The week passed somehow, unpleasantly enough for 
most of the persons concerned in this veracious history, 
but Saturday night came at last, and brought with it a 
series of events which modified the existing situation. 
Gouache was on duty at the barracks when orders were 
received to the effect that the whole available force in 
Rome was to march soon after midnight. His face 
brightened when he heard the news, although he realised 
that in a few hours he was to leave behind him all that 
he held most dear and to face death in a manner new to 
him, and by no means pleasant to most men. 

Between two and three o’clock on Sunday morning 
Gouache found himself standing in the midst of a corps 
of fifteen hundred Zouaves, in almost total darkness and 
under a cold, drizzling November rain. His teeth chat- 
tered and his wet hands seemed to freeze to the polished 
fittings of his rifle, and he had not the slightest doubt that 
every one of his comrades experienced the same unenvi- 


sant’ ilakio. 


197 


able sensations. From time to time the clear Toice of 
an officer was heard giving an order, and then the ranks 
closed up nearer, or executed a sidelong movement by 
which greater space was afforded to the other troops that 
constantly came up towards the Porta Pia. There was 
little talking during an hour or more while the last 
preparations for the march were being made, though the 
men exchanged a few words from time to time in an 
undertone. The splashing tramp of feet on the wet road 
was heard rapidly approaching every now and then, fol- 
lowed by a dead silence when the officers’ voices gave the 
order to halt. Then a shuffling sound followed as the 
ranks moved into the exact places assigned to them. 
Here and there a huge torch was blazing and spluttering 
in the fine rain, making the darkness around it seem only 
thicker by the contrast, but lighting up fragments of 
ancient masonry and gleaming upon little pools of water 
in the open spaces between the ranks. It was a dismal 
night, and it was fortunate that the men who were to 
march were in good spirits and encouraged by the arrival 
of the French, who made the circuit of the city and were 
to join them upon the road in order to strike the final 
blow against Garibaldi and his volunteers. 

The Zouaves were fifteen hundred, and there were 
about as many more of the native troops, making three 
thousand in all. The French were two thousand. The 
Garibaldians were, according to all accounts, not less 
than twelve thousand, and were known to be securely 
entrenched at Monte Potondo and further protected by the 
strong outpost of Montana, which lies nearly on the 
direct road from Pome to the former place. Considering 
the relative positions of the two armies, the odds were 
enormously in favour of Garibaldi, and had he possessed 
a skill in generalship at all equal to his undoubted per- 
sonal courage, he should have been able to drive the 
Pope’s forces back to the very gates of Pome. He was, 
however, under a twofold disadvantage which more than 
counterbalanced the numerical superiority of the body 
he commanded. He possessed little or no military 
science, and his men were neither confident nor deter- 
mined. His plan had been to create a revolution in 
Pome and to draw out the papal army at the same time. 


198 


sant’ ilario. 


in order that the latter might find itself between two 
fires. His men had expected that the country would rise 
and welcome them as liberators, whereas they were 
received as brigands and opposed with desperate energy 
at every point by the peasants themselves, a turn of 
affairs for which they were by no means prepared. 
Monte Kotondo, defended by only three hundred and 
fifty soldiers, resisted Garibaldi’s attacking force of six 
tliousand during twenty-seven hours, a feat which must 
have been quite impracticable had the inhabitants them- 
selves not joined in the defence. The revolution in Eome 
was a total failure, the mass of the people looking on 
with satisfaction, while the troops shot down the insur- 
gents, and at times even demanding arms that they 
might join in suppressing the disturbance. 

The Eome of 1867 was not the Eome of 1870, as will 
perhaps be understood hereafter. With the exception of 
a few turbulent spirits, the city contained no revolution- 
ary element, and very few who sympathised with the 
ideas of Italian Unification. 

But without going any further into political consider- 
ations for the present, let us follow Anastase Gouache 
and his fifteen hundred comrades who marched out of 
the Porta Pia before dawn on the third of November. 
The battle that followed merits some attention as having 
been the turning-point of a stirring time, and also as 
having produced certain important results in the life of 
the French artist, which again reacted in some measure 
upon the family history of the Saracinesca. 

Monte Eotondo itself is sixteen miles from Eome, but 
Mentana, which on that day was the outpost of the 
Garibaldians and became the scene of their defeat, is two 
miles nearer to the city. Most people who have ridden 
much in the Campagna know the road which branches 
to the left about five miles beyond the Ponte Nomentano. 
There is perhaps no more desolate and bleak part of the 
undulating waste of land that surrounds the city on all 
sides. The way is good as far as the turning, but after 
that it is little better than a country lane, and in rainy 
weather is heavy and sometimes almost impassable. As 
the rider approaches Mentana the road sinks between low 
hills and wooded knolls that dominate it on both sides, 


sant’ ilaeio. 


199 


affording excellent positions from which an enemy might 
harass and even destroy an advancing force. Gradually 
the country becomes more broken until Mentana itself 
appears in view, a formidable barrier rising upon the 
direct line to Monte Rotondo. On all sides are irregular 
hillocks, groups of trees growing upon little elevations, 
solid stone walls surrounding scattered farmhouses and 
cattle-yards, every one of which could be made a strong 
defensive post. Mentana, too, possesses an ancient cas- 
tle of some strength, and has walls of its own like most 
of the old towns in the Campagna, insignificant perhaps, 
if compared with modern fortifications, but well able to 
resist for many hours the fire of light field-guns. 

It was past midday when Gouache’s column first came 
in view of the enemy, and made out the bright red shirts 
of the Garibaldians, which peeped out from among the 
trees and from behind the walls, and were visible in some 
places massed in considerable numbers. The intention 
of the commanding officers, which was carried out with 
amazing ease, was to throw the Zouaves and native 
troops in the face of the enemy, while the French chas- 
seurs, on foot and mounted, made a flanking movement and 
cut off Garibaldi’s communication with Monte Rotondo, 
attacking Mentana at the same time from the opposite 
side. 

Gouache experienced an odd sensation when the first 
orders were given to fire. His experience had hitherto 
been limited to a few skirmishes with the outlaws of the 
Samnite hills, and the idea of standing up and deliber- 
ately taking aim at men who stood still to be shot at, so 
far as he could see, was not altogether pleasant. He 
confessed to himself that though he wholly approved of 
the cause for which he was about to fire his musket, he 
felt not the slightest hatred for the Garibaldians, indi' 
vidually or collectively. They were extremely pictur 
esque in the landscape, with their flaming shirts and 
theatrical hats. They looked very much as though they 
had come out of a scene in a comic opera, and it seemed 
a pity to destroy anything that relieved the dismal gray- 
ness of the November day. As he stood there he felt 
much more like the artist he was, than like a soldier, 
and he felt a ludicrously strong desire to step aside and 


200 


sant’ ilario. 


seat himself upon a stone wall in order to get a better 
view of the whole scene. 

Presently as he looked at a patch of red three or four 
hundred yards distant, the vivid colour was obscured by 
a little row of puffs of smoke. A rattling report fol- 
lowed, which reminded him of the discharges of the tiny 
mortars the Italian peasants love to fire at their village 
festivals. Then almost simultaneously he heard the 
curious swinging whistle of a dozen bullets flying over 
his head. This latter sound roused him to an under- 
standing of the situation, as he realised that any one of 
those small missiles might have ended its song by com- 
ing into contact with his own body. The next time he 
heard the order to Are he aimed as well as he could, and 
pulled the trigger with the best possible intention of 
killing an enemy. 

For the most part, the Garibaldians retired after each 
round, reappearing again to discharge their rifles from 
behind the shelter of walls and trees, while the Zouaves 
slowly advanced along the road, and began to deploy to 
the right and left wherever the ground permitted such 
a movement. The firing continued uninterruptedly for 
nearly half an hour, but though the rifles of the papal 
troops did good execution upon the enemy, the bullets 
of the latter seldom produced any effect. 

Suddenly the order was given to fix bayonets, and 
immediately afterwards came the command to charge. 
Gouache was all at once aware that he was rushing up 
hill at the top of his speed towards a small grove of trees 
that crowned the eminence. The bright red shirts of the 
enemy were visible before him amongst the dry under- 
brush, and before he knew what he was about he saw 
that he had run a Garibaldian through the calf of the 
leg. The man tumbled down, and Gouache stood over 
him, looking at him in some surprise. While he was 
staring at his fellow-foe the latter pulled out a pistol and 
fired at him, but the weapon only s naiipe d harmlessly. 

“As the thing won’t go off,” saldthe man coolly, 
“ perhaps you will be good enough to take your bayonet 
out of my leg.” 

He spoke in Italian, with a foreign accent, but in a 
tone of voice and with a manner which proclaimed him 


sant’ ilario. 


201 


a gentleman. There was a look of half comic discomfit- 
ure in his face that amused Gouache, who carefully 
extracted the steel from the wound, and offered to help 
his prisoner to his feet. The latter, however, found it 
hard to stand. 

“Circumstances point to the sitting posture,” he said, 
sinking down again. “I suppose I am your prisoner. 
If you have anything to do, pray do not let me detain 
you. I cannot get away and you will probably find me 
Jiere when you come back to dinner. I will occupy 
myself in cursing you while you are gone.” 

“You are very kind,” said Gouache, with a laugh. 
“May I offer you a cigarette and a little brandy?” 

The stranger looked up in some astonishment as he 
heard Gouache’s voice, and took the proffered flask in 
silence, as well as a couple of cigarettes from the case. 

“ Thank you,” he said after a pause. “ I will not curse 
you quite as heartily as I meant to do. You are very 
civil.” 

“Do not mention it,” replied Gouache. “I wish you 
a very good-morning, and I hope to have the pleasure of 
your company at dinner to-night.” 

Thereupon the Zouave shouldered his rifle and trotted 
off down the hill. The whole incident had not occupied 
more than three minutes and his comrades were not far 
off, pursuing the Garibaldians in the direction of a large 
farmhouse, which afforded the prospect of shelter and 
the means of defence. Half a dozen killed and wounded 
remained upon the hill besides Gouache’s prisoner. 

The Vigna di Santucci, as the farmhouse was called, 
was a strong building surrounded by walls and fences. 
A large number of the enemy had fallen back upon this 
point and it now became evident that they meant to make 
a determined resistance. As the Zouaves came up, led 
by Charette in person, the Eeds opened a heavy fire upon 
their advancing ranks. The shots rattled from the walls 
and windows in rapid succession, and took deadly effect 
at the short range. The Zouaves blazed away in reply 
with their chassepots, but the deep embrasures and high 
parapets offered an excellent shelter for the riflemen, 
and it was no easy matter to find an aim. The colonel’s 
magnificent figure and great fair beard were conspicuous 


202 


sant’ ilario. 


as lie moved about the ranks, encouraging the men and 
searching for some means of scaling the high walls. 
Though anxious tor the safety, of his troops, he seemed 
as much at home as though he were in a drawing-room, 
and paid no more attention to the whistling bullets than 
if they had been mere favours showered upon him in an 
afternoon’s carnival. The firing grew hotter every mo- 
ment and it was evident that unless the place could be 
carried by assault at once, the Zouaves must suffer ter- 
rible losses. The difficulty was to find a point where the 
attempt might be made with a good chance of success. 

“It seems to me,” said Gouache, to a big man who 
stood next to him, “ that if we were in Paris, and if that 
were a barricade instead of an Italian farmhouse, we 
should get over it.” 

“I think so, too,” replied his comrade, with a laugh. 

“Let us try,” suggested the artist quietly. “We may 
as well have made the attempt, instead of standing here 
to catch cold in this horrible mud. Come along,” he 
added quickly, “ or we shall be too late. The colonel is 
going to order the assault — do you see?” 

It was true. A loud voice gave a word of command 
which was echoed and repeated by a number of officers. 
The men closed in and made a rush for the farmhouse, 
trying to scramble upon each other’s shoulders to reach 
the top of the wall and the windows of the low first story. 
The attempt lasted several minutes, during which the 
enemies’ rifles poured down a murderous fire upon the 
struggling soldiers. The latter fell back at last, leaving 
one man alone clinging to the top of the wall. 

“It is Gouache! ” cried a hundred voices at once. He 
was a favourite with officers and men and was recognised 
immediately. 

He was in imminent peril of his life. Standing upon 
the shoulders of the sturdy comrade to whom he had 
been speaking a few minutes before he had made a 
spring, and had succeeded in getting hold of the topmost 
stones. Taking advantage of the slight foothold afforded 
by the crevices in the masonry, he drew himself up with 
catlike agility till he was able to kneel upon the narrow 
summit. He had chosen a spot for his attempt where he 
had previously observed that no enemy appeared, rightly 


sant’ ilario. 


203 


judging that the¥e must be some reason for this pecu- 
liarity, of which he might be able to take advantage. 
This proved to be the case, for he found himself imme- 
diately over a horse pond, which was sunk between two 
banks of earth that followed the wall on the inside up to 
the water, and upon which the riflemen stood in safety 
behind the parapet. The men so stationed had discharged 
their pieces during the assault, and were busily employed 
in reloading when they noticed the Zouave perched upon 
the top of the wall. One or two who had pistols fired 
them at him, but without effect. One or two threw 
stones from the interior of the vineyard. 

Gouache threw himself on his face along the wall and 
began quickly to throw down the topmost stones. The 
mortar was scarcely more solid than dry mud, and in a 
few seconds ho had made a perceptible impression upon 
the masonry. But the riflemen had meanwhile finished 
reloading and one of them, taking careful aim, fired upon 
the Zouave. The bullet hit him in the fleshy part of the 
shoulder, causing a stinging pain and, what was worse, a 
shock that nearly sent him rolling over the edge. Still 
he clung on desperately, loosening the stones with a 
strength one would not have expected in his spare frame. 
A minute longer, during which half a dozen more balls 
whizzed over him or flattened themselves against the 
stones, and then his comrades made another rush, con- 
centrating their force this time at the spot where he had 
succeeded in lowering the barrier. His left arm was 
almost powerless from the flesh-wound in his shoulder, 
but with his right he helped the first man to a footing 
beside him. In a moment more the Zouaves were swarm- 
ing over the wall and dropping down by scores into the 
shallow pool on the other side. 

The fight was short but desperate. The enemy, driven 
to bay in the corners of the yard and within the farm- 
house, defended themselves manfully, many of them being 
killed and many more wounded. But the place was car- 
ried and the great majority fled precipitately through the 
exits at the back and made the best of their way towards 
Montana. 

An hour later Gouache was still on his legs, but ex- 
hausted by his efforts in scaling the wall and by loss of 


204 


sant’ ilabio. 


blood from bis wound, he felt that he could not hold out 
much longer. The position at that time was precarious. 
It was nearly four o’clock and the days were short. The 
artillery was playing against the little town, but the 
guns were light field-pieces of small calibre, and though 
their position was frequently changed they made but 
little impression upon the earthworks thrown up by the 
enemy. The Garibaldians massed themselves in large 
numbers as they retreated from various points upon Mon- 
tana, and though their weapons were inferior to those of 
their opponents their numbers made them still formida- 
ble. The Zouaves, gendarmes, and legionaries, however, 
pressed steadily though slowly onward. The only ques- 
tion was whether the daylight would last long enough. 
Should the enemy have the advantage of the long night 
in which to bring up reinforcements from Monte Eotondo 
and repair the breaches in their defences the attack might 
last through all the next day. 

The fortunes of the little battle were decided by the 
French chasseurs, who had gradually worked out a flank- 
ing movement under cover of the trees and the broken 
country. Just as Gouache felt that he could stand no 
longer, a loud shout upon the right announced the charge 
of the allies, and a few minutes later the day was prac- 
tically won. The Zouaves rushed forward, cheered and 
encouraged by the prospect of immediate success, but 
Anastase staggered from the ranks and sank down under 
a tree unable to go any farther. He had scarcely settled 
himself in a comfortable position when he lost conscious- 
ness and fainted away. 

Mentana was not taken, but it surrendered on the fol- 
lowing morning, and as Monte Eotondo had been evac- 
uated during the night and most of the Garibaldians 
had escaped over the frontier, the fighting was at an 
end, and the campaign of twenty-four hours terminated 
in a complete victory for the Eoman forces. 

When Gouache came to himself his first sensation was 
that of a fiery stream of liquid gurgling in his mouth and 
running down his throat. He swallowed the liquor half 
unconsciously, and opening his eyes for a moment was 
aware that two men were standing beside him, one of 
them holding a lantern in his hand, the rays from which 


SANT’ ILAKIO. 


205 


dazzled the wounded Zouave and prevented him from 
recognising the persons. 

‘‘Where is he hurt?’’ asked a voice that sounded 
strangely familiar in his ears. 

“I cannot tell yet,” replied the other man, kneeling 
down again beside him and examining him attentively. 

“ It is only my shoulder,” gasped Gouache. “ But I am 
very weak. Let me sleep, please. ” Thereupon he fainted 
again, and was conscious of nothing more for some time. 

The two men took him up and carried him to a place 
near, where others were waiting for him. The night was 
intensely dark, and no one spoke a word, as the little 
party picked its way over the battle-field, occasionally 
stopping to avoid treading upon one of the numerous 
prostrate bodies that lay upon the ground. The man 
who had examined Gouache generally stooped down and 
turned the light of his lantern upon the faces of the dead 
men, expecting that some one of them might show signs 
of life. But it was very late, and the wounded had 
already been carried away. Gouache alone seemed to 
have escaped observation, an accident probably due to 
the fact that he had been able to drag himself to a shel- 
tered spot before losing his senses. 

During nearly an hour the men trudged along the road 
with their burden, when at last they saw in the distance 
the bright lamps of a carriage shining through the dark- 
ness. The injured soldier was carefully placed among 
the cushions, and the two gentlemen who had found him 
got in and closed the door. 

Gouache awoke in consequence of the pain caused by 
the jolting of the vehicle. The lantern was placed upon 
one of the vacant seats and illuminated the faces of his 
companions, one of whom sat behind him and supported 
his weight by holding one arm around his body. Anas- 
tase stared at this man’s face for some time in silence 
and in evident surprise. He thought he was in a dream, 
and he spoke rather to assure himself that he was awake 
than for any other reason. 

“You were anxious lest I should escape you after all,” 
he said. “You need not be afraid. I shall be able to 
keep my engagement.” 

“I trust you will do nothing of the kind, my dear 
Gouache,” answered Giovanni Saracinesca. 


206 


sant’ ilario. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

On the Saturday afternoon preceding the battle of 
Mentana, Sant’ Ilario was alone in his own room, trying 
to pass the weary hours in the calculation of certain 
improvements he meditated at Saracinesca. 'He had 
grown very thin and careworn during the week, and he 
found it hard to distract his mind even for a moment 
from the thought of his misfortunes. Nothing but a 
strong mental effort in another direction could any longer 
fix his attention, and though any kind of work was for 
the present distasteful to him, it was at least a temporary 
relief from the contemplation of his misfortunes. 

He could not bring himself to see Corona, though she 
grew daily worse, and both the physicians and the attend- 
ants who were about her looked grave. His action in this 
respect did not proceed from heartlessness, still less from 
any wish to add to her sufferings; on the contrary, he 
knew very well that, since he could not speak to her with 
words of forgiveness, the sight of him would very likely 
aggravate her state. He had no reason to forgive her, 
for nothing had happened to make her guilt seem more 
pardonable than before. Had she been well and strong 
as usual he would have seen her often and would very 
likely have reproached her again and again most bitterly 
with what she had done. But she was ill and wholly 
unable to defend herself; to inflict fresh pain at such a 
time would have been mean and cowardly. He kept 
away and did his best not to go mad, though he felt that 
he could not bear the strain much longer. 

As the afternoon light faded from his chamber he 
dropped the pencil and paper with which he had been 
working and leaned back in his chair. His face was 
haggard and drawn, and sleepless nights had made dark 
circles about his deep-set eyes, while his face, which 
was naturally lean, had grown suddenly thin and hollow. 
He was indeed one of the most unhappy men in Rome 
that day, and so far as he could see his misery had fallen 
upon him through no fault of his own. It would have 
been a blessed relief, could he have accused himself of 


sant’ ilaeio. 


207 


injustice, or of any misdeed which, might throw the 
weight and responsibility of Corona’s actions back upon 
his own soul. He loved her still so well that he could 
have imagined nothing sweeter than to throw himself at 
her feet and cry aloud that it was he who had sinned and 
not she. He tortured his imagination for a means of 
proving that she might be innocent. But it was in vain. 
The chain of circumstantial evidence was complete and not 
a link was missing, not one point uncertain. He would 
have given her the advantage of any doubt which could 
be thought to exist, but the longer he thought of it all, 
the more sure he grew that there was no doubt whatever. 

He sat quite still until it was nearly dark, and then 
with a sudden and angry movement quite unlike him, 
he sprang to his feet and left the room. Solitude was 
growing unbearable to him, and though he cared little to 
see any of his associates, the mere presence of other living 
beings would, he thought, be better than nothing. He 
was about to go out of the house when he met the doctor 
coming from Corona’s apartments. 

“I do not wish to cause you unnecessary pain,” said 
the physician, but I think it would be better that you 
should see the princess.” 

“ Has she asked for me? ” inquired Giovanni, gloomily. 

‘‘No. But I think you ought to see her.” 

“Is she dying?” Sant’ Hario spoke under his breath 
and laid his hand on the doctor’s arm. 

“ Pray be calm. Signor Principe. I did not say that. 
But I repeat ” 

“ Be good enough to say what you mean without rep- 
etition,” answered Giovanni almost savagely. 

The physician’s face flushed with annoyance, but as 
Giovanni was such a very high and mighty personage he 
controlled his anger and replied as calmly as he could. 

“ The princess is not dying. But she is very ill. She 
may be worse before morning. You had better see her 
now, for she will know you. Later she may not.” 

Without waiting for more Giovanni turned on his heel 
and strode towards his wife’s room. Passing through 
an outer chamber he saw one of her women sitting in a 
corner and shedding copious tears. 

She looked up and pointed to the door in a helpless 


208 SANT' ILAEiO. 

fashion. In another moment Giovanni was at Coronals 
bedside. 

He would not have recognised her. Her face was 
wasted and white, and looked ghastly by contrast with 
the masses of her black hair which were spread over the 
broad pillow. Her colourless lips were parted and a 
little drawn, and her breath came faintly. Only her 
eyes retained the expression of life, seeming larger and 
more brilliant than he had ever seen them before. 

Giovanni gazed on her in horror for several seconds. 
In his imagination he had supposed that she would look 
as when he had seen her last, and the shock of seeing her 
as she was, unstrung his nerves. For an instant he for- 
got everything that was past in the one strong passion 
that dominated him in spite of himself. His arms went 
round her and amidst his blinding tears he showered hot 
kisses on her death-like face. With a supreme effort, 
for she was so weak as to be almost powerless, she clasped 
her hands about his neck and pressed her to him, or he 
pressed her. The embrace lasted but a moment and her 
arms fell again like lead. 

“You know the truth at last, Giovanni,” she said, 
feebly. “You know that I am innocent or you would 
not ” 

He did not know whether her voice failed her from 
weakness, or whether she was hesitating. He felt as 
though she had driven a sharp weapon into his breast by 
recalling all that separated them. He drew back a little, 
and his face darkened. 

What could he do? She was dying and it would be 
diabolically cruel to undeceive her. In that moment he 
would have given his soul to be able to lie, to put on 
again the expression that was in his face when he had 
kissed her a moment before. But the suffering of which 
she reminded him was too great, the sin too enormous, 
and though he tried bravely he could not succeed. But 
he made the effort. He tried to smile, and the attempt 
was horrible. He spoke, but there was no life in his 
words. 

“Yes, dear,” he said, though the words choked him 
like hot dust, “ I know it was all a mistake. How can I 
ever ask your forgiveness?” 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


209 


Corona saw that it was not the truth, and with a 
despairing cry she turned away and hid her face in the 
pillow. Giovanni felt an icy chill of horror descending 
to his heart. A more terrible moment could scarcely be 
imagined. There he stood beside his dying wife, the 
conviction of her sin burnt in upon his heart, but loving 
her fiercely still, willing in that supreme crisis to make 
her think she was forgiven, striving to tell the kind lie 
that nevertheless would not be told, powerless to deceive 
her who had so horribly betrayed him. 

Once more he bent over her and laid his hand on hers. 
The touch of her wasted fingers brought the tears to his 
eyes again, but the moment of passion was past. He 
bent down and would have comforted her had he known 
how, but not a word would form itself upon his lips. 
Her face was turned away and he could see that she was 
determined not to look at him. Only now and then a 
passionate sob shook her and made her tremble, like a 
thing of little weight shaken by the wind. 

Giovanni could bear it no longer. Once more he 
kissed her heavy hair and then quickly went out, he 
knew not whither. When he realised what he was doing 
he found himself leaning against a damp wall in the 
street. He pulled himself together and walked away at 
a brisk pace, trying to find some relief in rapid motion. 
He never knew how far he walked that night, haunted 
by the presence of Corona’s deathly face and by the 
sound of that despairing cry which he had no power to 
check. He went on and on, challenged from time to time 
by the sentinels to whom he mechanically showed his 
pass. Striding up hill and down through the highways 
and through the least frequented streets of the city, it 
was all the same to him in his misery, and he had no 
consciousness of what he saw or heard. At eight o’clock 
in the evening he was opposite Saint Peter’s; at mid- 
night he was standing alone at the desolate cross-roads 
before Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, beyond the Lateran, 
and only just within the walls. Prom place to place he 
wandered, feeling no fatigue, but only a burning fever 
in his head and an icy chill in his heart. Sometimes he 
would walk up and down some broad square twenty or 
thirty times ; then again he followed a long thoroughfare 


210 


sant’ ilario. 


throughout its whole length, and retraced his steps with- 
out seeing that he passed twice through the same street. 

At last he found himself in a great crowd of people. 
Had he realised that it was nearly three o^ clock in the 
morning the presence of such a concourse would have 
astonished him. But if he was not actually ill and out 
of his mind, he was at all events in such a confused state 
that he did not even ask himself what was the meaning 
of the demonstration. 

The tramp of marching troops recalled the thought of 
Gouache, and suddenly he understood what was happen- 
ing. The soldiers were leaving Koine to attack the 
Garibaldians, and he was near one of the gates. By the 
light of flaring torches he recognised at some distance 
the hideous architecture of the Porta Pia. He caught 
sight of the Zouave uniform under the glare and pressed 
forward instinctively, trying to see the faces of the men. 
But the crowd was closely packed and he could not obtain 
a view, try as he might, and the darkness was so thick 
that the torches only made the air darker around them. 

He listened to the tramp of feet and the ring of steel 
arms and accoutrements like a man in an evil dream. 
Instead of passing quickly, the time now seemed inter- 
minable, for he was unable to move, and the feeling that 
among those thousands of moving soldiers there was per- 
haps that one man for whose blood he thirsted, was 
intolerable. At last the tramping died away in the dis- 
tance and the crowd loosened itself and began to break 
up. Giovanni was carried with the stream, and once 
more it became indifferent to him whither he went. All 
at once he was aware of a very tall man who walked 
beside him, a man so large that he looked up, sure that 
the giant could be none but his cousin San Giacinto. 

“Are you here, too?” asked the latter in a friendly 
voice, as he recognised Giovanni by the light of a lamp, 
under which they were passing. 

“ I came to see them off, ” replied Sant’ Ilario, coldly. 
It seemed to him as though his companion must have 
followed him. 

“ So did I,” said San Giacinto. “ I heard the news late 
last night, and only lay down for an hour or two.” 

“What time is it?” asked Giovanni, who supposed it 
was about midnight. 


sant’ ilario. 211 

“Five o’clock. It will be daylight, or dawn at least, 
in an hour.” 

Giovanni was silent, wondering absently where he had 
been all night. For some time the two walked on with- 
out speaking. 

“You had better come and have coffee with me,” said 
San Giacinto as they passed through the Piazza Barbarini. 
“ I made my man get up so that I might have some as 
soon as I got home.” 

Giovanni assented. The presence of some one with 
whom he could speak made him realise that he was 
almost exhausted for want of food. It was morning, 
and he had eaten nothing since the preceding midday, 
and little enough then. In a few minutes they reached 
San Giacinto’ s lodging. There was a lamp burning 
brightly on the table of the sitting-room, and a little fire 
was smouldering on the hearth. Giovanni sank into a 
chair, worn out with hunger and fatigue, while the ser- 
vant brought the coffee and set it on the table. 

“You look tired,” remarked San Giacinto. “One 
lump or two? ” 

Giovanni drank the beverage without tasting it, but it 
revived him, and the warmth of the room comforted his 
chilled and tired limbs. He did not notice that San 
Giacinto was looking hard at him, wondering indeed 
what could have produced so strange an alteration in his 
appearance and manner. 

“How is the princess?” asked the big man in a tone 
of sympathy as he slowly stirred the sugar in his coffee. 

“Thank you — she is very well,” answered Giovanni, 
mechanically. In his mind the secret which he must 
conceal was so closely connected with Corona’s illness 
that he almost unconsciously included her state among 
the things of which he would not speak. But San Gia- 
cinto looked sharply at him, wondering what he meant. 

“Indeed? I thought she was very ill.” 

“ So she is, ” replied Sant’ Ilario, bluntly. “ I forgot 
— I do not know what I was thinking of. I fear she is 
in a very dangerous condition.” 

He was silent again, and sat leaning upon the table 
absently looking at the objects that lay before him, an 
open portfolio and writing materials, a bit of sealing- 


212 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


wax, a small dictionary, neatly laid in order upon the 
dark red cloth. He did not know why he had allowed 
himself to be led to the place, but he felt a sense of rest 
in sitting there quietly in silence. San Giacinto saw 
that there was something wrong and said nothing, but 
lighted a black cigar and smoked thoughtfully. 

“You look as though you had been up all night,’’ he 
remarked after a long pause. 

Giovanni did not answer. His eyes did not look up 
from the red blotting-paper in the open portfolio before 
him. As he looked down San Giacinto almost believed 
he was asleep, and shook the table a little to see whether 
his cousin would notice it. Instantly Giovanni laid his 
hand upon the writing book, to steady it before him. 
But still he did not look up. 

“You seem to be interested,” said San Giacinto, with 
a smile, and he blew a cloud of smoke into the air. 

Giovanni was indeed completely absorbed in his studies, 
and only nodded his head in answer. After a few min- 
utes more he rose and took the portfolio to a dingy mirror 
that stood over the chimney-piece of the lodging, and 
held up the sheet of red blotting-paper before the reflect- 
ing surface. Apparently not satisfied with this, he 
brought the lamp and set it upon the shelf, and then 
repeated the process. 

“You are an infernal scoundrel,” he said in a low 
voice, that trembled with wrath, .as he turned and faced 
San Giacinto. 

“What do you mean?” inquired the latter with a 
calmness that would have staggered a less angry man. 

Giovanni drew from his pocket-book the note he had 
found in Gouache’s room. For a week he had kept it 
about him. Without paying any further attention to 
San Giacinto he held it in one hand and again placed 
the blotting-paper in front of the mirror. The impres- 
sion of the writing corresponded exactly with the origi- 
nal. As it consisted of but a very few words and had 
been written quickly, almost every stroke had been 
reproduced upon the red paper in a reversed facsimile. 
Giovanni brought the two and held them before San 
Giacinto’ s eyes. The latter looked surprised but did not 
betray the slightest fear. 


SANT’ ILARTO. 213 

“ Do you mean to tell me that you did not write this 
note?” asked Giovanni, savagely. 

“ Of course I wrote it, ” replied the other coolly. 

Giovanni’s teeth chattered with rage. He dropped 
the portfolio and the letter and seized his cousin by the 
throat, burying his fingers in the tough flesh with the 
ferocity of a wild animal. He was very strong and 
active and had fallen upon his adversary unawares, so 
that he had an additional advantage. But for all that 
he was no match for his cousin’s giant strength. San 
Giacinto sprang to his feet and his great hands took hold 
of Giovanni’s arms above the elbow, lifting him from the 
ground and shaking him in the air as easily as a cat 
worries a mouse. Then he thrust him into his chair 
again and stood holding him so that he could not move. 

“I do not want to hurt you,” he said, ‘‘but I do not 
like to be attacked in this way. If you try it again I 
will break some of your bones.” 

Giovanni was so much astonished at finding himself 
so easily overmatched that he was silent for a moment. 
The ex-innkeeper relinquished his hold and picked up 
his cigar, which had fallen in the struggle. 

“ I do not propose to wrestle with you for a match, ” 
said Giovanni at last. “You are stronger than I, but 
there are other weapons than those of brute strength. I 
repeat that you are an infernal scoundrel.” 

“You may repeat it as often as you please,” replied 
San Giacinto, who had recovered his composure with 
marvellous rapidity. “It does not hurt me at all.” 

“Then you are a contemptible coward,” cried Gio- 
vanni, hotly. 

“ That is not true, ” said the other. “ I never ran away 
in my life. Perhaps I have not much reason to avoid a 
fight,” he added, looking down at his huge limbs with a 
smile. 

Giovanni did not know what to do. He had never had 
a quarrel with a man who was able to break his neck, 
but who would not fight like a gentleman. He grew 
calmer, and could have laughed at the situation had it 
been brought about by any other cause. 

“Look here, cousin,” said San Giacinto, suddenly and 
in a familiar tone, “ I am as good a gentleman as you. 


214 


sant’ ilario. 


tliough I have kept an inn. If it is the custom here to 
play with swords and such toys I will take a few lessons 
and we will have it out. But I confess that I would like 
to know why you are so outrageously angry. How did 
you come by that letter? It was never meant for you, 
nor for any of yours. I pinned it upon Gouache’s dress- 
ing-table with a pin I found there. I took the paper 
from your wife’s table a week ago yesterday. If you 
want to know all about it I will tell you.” 

“And whom did you intend for the author of the 
letter? Whom but my wife?” 

“Your wife! ” cried San Giacinto in genuine astonish- 
ment. “You are out of your mind. Gouache was to 
meet Faustina Monte varchi on Sunday morning at a 
church, and I invented the note to prevent the meeting, 
and put it on his table during the previous afternoon. 
I am going to marry Donna Flavia, and I do not mean to 
allow a beggarly Zouave to make love to my future sister- 
in-law. Since you took the note they must have met 
after all. I wish you had left it alone.” 

Giovanni sank into a chair before the table and buried 
his face in his hands. San Giacinto stood looking at 
him in silence, beginning to comprehend what had hap- 
pened, and really distressed that his comparatively 
harmless stratagem should have caused so much trouble. 
He looked at things from a lower point of view than 
Giovanni, but he was a very human man, after all. It 
was hard for him to believe that his cousin could have 
really supected Corona of loving Gouache; but Giovanni’s 
behaviour left no other explanation. On the other hand, 
he felt that whatever might be thought of his own part 
in the affair, it was Giovanni’s own fault that things 
had turned out as they had, seeing that he had bewi 
guilty of a very serious indiscretion in entering Gouache’s 
rooms unbidden and in reading what was meant for the 
Zouave. 

Giovanni rose and his face was pale again, but the 
expression had utterly changed in the course of a few 
seconds. He suffered horribly, but with a pain more 
easy to bear than that which had tortured him during 
the past week. Corona was innocent, and he knew it. 
Every word she had spoken a week ago, when he had 


sant’ ilario. 


215 


accused her, rang again in his ears, and as though by 
magic the truth of her statement was now as clear as the 
day. He could never forgive himself for having doubted 
her. He did not know whether he could ever atone for 
the agony he must have caused her. But it was a thou- 
sand times better that he should live long years of bitter 
self-reproach, than that the woman he so loved should 
have fallen. He forgot San Giacinto and the petty 
scheme which had brought about such dire consequences. 
He forgot his anger of a moment ago in the supreme joy 
of knowing that Corona had not sinned, and in the bitter 
contrition for having so terribly wronged her. If he 
felt anything towards San Giacinto it was gratitude, but 
he stood speechless under his great emotion, not even 
thinking what he should say. 

If you doubt the truth of my explanation, ” said San 
Giacinto, ^‘go to the Palazzo Montevarchi. Opposite 
the entrance you will see some queer things painted on 
the wall. There are Gouache’s initials scrawled a hun- 
dred times, and the words ‘Sunday’ and ‘Mass’ very 
conspicuous. A simple way, too, would be to ask him 
whether he did not actually meet Faustina last Sunday 
morning. When a man advertises his meetings with his 
lady-love on the walls of the city, no one can be blamed 
for reading the advertisement.” 

He laughed at the conceit and at his own astuteness; 
but Giovanni scarcely heeded him or his words. 

“ Good-bye, ” said the latter, holding out his hand. 

“You do not want to fight any more, then?” asked 
San Giacinto. 

“Hot unless you do. Good-bye.” 

Without another word he left the room and descended 
into the street. The cold gray dawn was over everything 
and the air was raw and chilly. There is nothing more 
dismal than early dawn in a drizzling rain when a man 
has been up all night, but Giovanni was unconscious of 
any discomfort, and there were wings under his feet as 
he hastened homeward along the slippery pavements. 

The pallor in his face had given way to a slight flush 
that gave colour and animation to his cheeks, and though 
his eyes were bright their expression was more natural 
than it had been for many days. He was in one of the 


216 


sant’ ilarto. 


strangest humours which can have sway over that uncon- 
sciously humorous animal, man. In the midst of the 
deepest self-abasement his heart was overflowing with 
joy. The combination of sorrow and happiness is a rare 
one, not found every day, but the condition of experienc- 
ing both at the same time and in the highest degree is 
very possible. 

Giovanni, indeed, could not feel otherwise than he 
did. Had he suspected Corona and accused her on 
grounds wholly frivolous and untenable, in the unreason- 
ing outbreak of a foolish jealousy, he could not have 
been so persuaded of her guilt as to feel the keenest joy 
on flnding her innocent. In that case his remorse would 
have outweighed his satisfaction. Had he, on the other 
hand, suspected her without making the accusation, he 
would have been happy on discovering his mistake, but 
could have felt little or no remorse. As it was, he had 
accused her upon evidence which most tribunals would 
have thought sufflcient for a conviction, and on seeing all 
doubt cleared away he realised with terrible force the 
extent of the pain he had inflicted. While he had still 
believed that she had fallen, he had still so loved her as 
to wish that he could take the burden of her guilt upon 
his own shoulders. Now that her innocence was proved 
beyond all doubt, he had no thought but to ask her for- 
giveness. 

He let himself in with a latch-key and ran up the dim 
stairs. A second key opened the polished door into the 
dark vestibule, and in a moment more he was in the 
ante-chamber of Corona’s apartment. Two or three 
women, pale with watching, were standing round a table, 
upon which something was heating over a spirit lamp. 
Giovanni stopped and spoke to them. 

‘^How is she?” he asked, his voice unsteady with 
anxiety. 

The women shook their heads, and one of them began 
to cry. They loved their mistress dearly and had little 
hope of her recovery. They had been amazed, too, at 
Giovanni’s apparent indifference during the whole week, 
and seemed surprised when he went towards the door. 
One motioned to him to make no noise. He turned the 
latch very gently and advanced into the darkened cham- 
ber. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


217 


Corona was Ij'ing as he had seen her on the previous 
evening, and there seemed to be little or no change in 
her state. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was 
scarcely perceptible. A nurse was nodding in a chair 
near the night light and looked up as Giovanni entered. 
He pointed to the door and she went out. All was so 
exactly as it had been twelve hours earlier that he could 
hardly realise the immense change that had taken place 
ill his own heart during the interval. He stood looking 
at his wife, scarcely breathing for fear of disturbing her 
and yet wishing that she might wake to hear what he 
had to say. But she did not move nor show any signs 
of consciousness. Her delicate, thin hand lay upon the 
coverlet. He stooped down very slowly and cautiously, 
and kissed the wasted fingers. Then he drew back 
quickly and noiselessly as though he had done something 
wrong. He thought she must be asleep, and sat down in 
the chair the nurse had vacated. The stillness was pro- 
found. The little night light burned steadily without 
flickering and cast queer long shadows from the floor 
upwards over the huge tapestries upon the wall. The 
quaint figures of heroes and saints, that had seen many 
a Saracinesca born and many a one die in the ancient 
vaulted room, seemed to take the expressions of old 
friends watching over the suffering woman. A faint 
odour like that of ether pervaded the still air, an odour 
Giovanni never forgot during his life. Everything was 
so intensely quiet that he almost thought he could hear 
the ticking of his watch in his pocket. 

Corona stirred at last, and slowly opening her eyes, 
turned them gradually till they met her husband’s gaze. 
At the first movement she made he had risen to his feet 
and now stood close beside her. 

‘‘Hid you kiss my hand — or did I dream it?” she 
asked faintly. 

“Yes, darling.” He could not at once find words to 
say what he wanted. 

“Why did you?” 

Giovanni fell on his knees by the bedside and took her 
hand in both his own. 

“ Corona, Corona — forgive me ! ” The cry came from 
his heart, and was uttered with an accent of despair that 


218 


sant’ ilario. 


there was no mistaking. She knew, faint and scarcely 
conscious though she was, that he was not attempting to 
deceive her this time. But he could say no more. 
Many a strong man would in that moment have sobbed 
aloud and shed tears, but Giovanni was not as other men. 
Under great emotion all expression was hard for him, 
and the spontaneity of tears would have contradicted his 
nature. 

Corona wondered what had happened, and lay quite 
still, looking at his bent head and feeling the trembling 
touch of his hands on hers. For several seconds the 
stillness was almost as profound as it had been before. 
Then Giovanni spoke out slowly and earnestly. 

“ My beloved wife, ” he said, looking up into her face, 
“ I know all the truth now. I know what I have done. 
I know what you have suffered. Forgive me if you can. 
I will give my whole life to deserve your pardon.” 

For an instant all Corona’s beauty returned to her face 
as she heard his words. Her eyes shone softly, the 
colour mounted to her pale cheeks, and she breathed one 
happy sigh of relief and gladness. Her ffngers contracted 
and closed round his with a tender pressure. 

“It is true,” she said, scarcely audibly. “You are not 
trying to deceive me in order to keep me alive ? ” 

“It, is true, darling,” he answered. “San Giacinto 
wrote the letter. It was not even meant to seem to come 
from you. Oh, Corona — can you ever forgive me?” 

She turned so as to see him better, and looked long 
into his eyes. The colour slowly faded again from her 
face, and her expression changed, growing suddenly sad. 

“ I will forgive you. I will try to forget it all, Gio- 
vanni. You should have believed me, for I have never 
lied to you. It will be long before I am strong again, 
and I shall have much time to think of it.” 

Giovanni rose to his feet, still clasping her hand. 
Something told him that she was not a woman who could 
either forgive or forget such an injury, and her tone was 
colder than he had hoped. The expiation had begun 
and he was already suffering the punishment of his 
unbelief. He bore the pain bravely. What right had 
he to expect that she would suddenly become as she had 
been before? She had been, and still was, dangerously 


sant’ ilario. 


219 


ill, and her illness had been caused by his treatment of 
her. It would be long before their relations could be 
again what they had once been, and it was not for him 
to complain. She might have sent him away in anger; 
he would not have thought her too unkind. But when 
he remembered her love, he trembled at the thought of 
living without it. His voice was very gentle as he 
answered her, after a short pause. 

“You shall live to forget it all. Corona. I will make 
you forget it. I will undo what I have done.” 

“Can you, Giovanni? Is there no blood upon your 
hands?” She knew her husband well, and could hardly 
believe that he had refrained from taking vengeance 
upon Gouache. 

“ There is none, thank God, ” replied Giovanni. “ But 
for a happy accident I should have killed the man a 
week ago. It was all arranged. ” 

“You must tell him that you have been mistaken,” 
said Corona simply. 

“Yes, I will.” 

“Thank you. That is right.” 

“It is the least I can do.” 

Giovanni felt that words were of very little use, and 
even had he wished to say more he would not have known 
how to speak. There was that between them which was 
too deep for all expression, and he knew that henceforth 
he could only hope to bring back Corona’s love by his own 
actions. Besides, in her present state, he guessed that it 
would be wiser to leave her, than to prolong the interview. 

“I will go now,” he said. “You must rest, darling, 
and be quite well to-morrow.” 

“Yes. I can rest now.” 

She said nothing about seeing him again. With a 
humility almost pathetic in such a man, he bent down 
and touched her hand with his lips. Then he would 
have gone away, but she held his fingers and looked long 
into his eyes. 

“ I am sorry for you, dear, ” she said, and paused, not 
taking her eyes from his. “Kiss me,” she added at 
last, with a faint smile. 

A moment later, he was gone. She gazed long at the 
door through which he had left the room, and her expres- 


220 


SANT' ILARIO. 


sion changed more than once, softening and hardening 
again as the thoughts chased each other through her 
tired brain. At last she closed her eyes, and presently 
fell into a peaceful sleep. 

Giovanni waited in his room until his father was 
awake and then went to tell him what had happened. 
The old gentleman looked weary and sad, but his keen 
sight noticed the change in his son^s manner. 

‘‘You look better,’’ he said. 

“I have been undeceived,” answered Giovanni. “I 
have been mistaken, misled by the most extraordinary 
set of circumstances I have ever heard of.” 

Saracinesca’s eyes suddenly gleamed angrily and his 
white beard bristled round his face. 

“You have made a fool of yourself,” he growled. 
“ You have made your wife ill and yourself miserable in 
a fit of vulgar jealousy. And now you have been telling 
her so.” 

“Exactly. I have been telling her so.” 

“You are an idiot, Giovanni. I always knew it.” 

“ I have only just found it out, ” answered the younger 
man. 

“ Then you are amazingly slow at discovery. Why do 
you stand there staring at me? Do you expect any 
sympathy? You will not get it. Go and say a litany 
outside your wife’s door. You have made me spend the 
most horrible week I ever remember, just because you 
are not good enough for her. How could you ever dare 
to suspect that woman? Go away. I shall strangle 
you if you stay here ! ” 

“That consideration would not have much weight,” 
replied Giovanni. “ I know how mad I have been, much 
better than you can tell me. And yet, I doubt whether 
any one was ever so strangely mistaken before.” 

“ With your intelligence the wonder is that you are not 
always mistaken. Upon my soul, the more I think of 
it, the more I ain amazed at your folly. You acted like 
a creature in the theatre. With your long face and your 
mystery and your stage despair, you even made a fool of 
me. At all events, I shall know what to expect the 
next time it happens. I hope Corona will have the 
sense to make you do penance.” 


SANT’ ILAKIO. 


221 


To tell the truth Giovanni had not expected any better 
treatment from his father than he actually received, and 
he was not in a humour to resent reproaches which he 
knew to be well deserved. He had only intended to tell 
the prince the result of what had occurred, and he relaxed 
nothing of his determination, even though he might have ' 
persuaded the old gentleman that the accumulated evi- 
dence had undoubtedly justified his doubts. With a 
short salutation he left the room and went out, hoping 
that Gouache had not acconipanied the expedition to 
Montana, improbable as that seemed. 

He was, of course, disappointed, for while he was 
making inquiries Gouache was actually on the way to 
the battle with his corps, as has been already seen. 
Giovanni spent most of the day in the house, constantly 
inquiring after Corona, and trying to occupy his mind 
in reading, though with little success. The idea that 
Gouache might be killed without having learned the truth 
began to take possession of him and caused him an 
annoyance he could not explain. It was not that he 
felt any very profound remorse for having wronged the 
man. His nature was not so sensitive as that. It was 
rather, perhaps, because he regarded the explanation 
with Anastase as a part of W'hat he owed Corona, that he 
was so anxious to meet him alive. Partly, too, his anxiety 
arose from his restlessness and from the desire for action 
of some sort in which to forget all he had suffered, and 
all he was still suffering. 

Towards evening he went out and heard news of the 
engagement. It was already known that the enemy had 
fallen back upon Montana, and no one doubted the 
ultimate result of the day’s fighting. People were 
already beginning to talk of going out to take assistance 
to the wounded. The idea struck Giovanni as plausible 
and he determined to act upon it at once. He took a 
surgeon and several men with him, and drove out across 
the Campagna to the scene of the battle. 

As has been told, he found Gouache at last, after a 
long and difficult search. The ground was so broken and 
divided by ditches, walls and trees, that some of the 
wounded were not found until the middle of the next day. 
Unless Giovanni had undertaken the search Anastase 


222 


sant’ ilario. 


might have escaped notice for a long time, and it was 
no wonder if he expressed astonishment on waking up to 
find himself comfortably installed in Saracinesca^s car- 
riage, tended by the man who a few days earlier had 
wanted to take his life. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Gouache’s wound was by no means dangerous, and 
when he had somewhat recovered from the combined 
effects of loss of blood and excessive fatigue he did not 
feel much the worse for having a ball in his shoulder. 
Giovanni and the doctor gave him food and a little wine 
in the carriage, and long before they reached the gates 
of the city the Zouave was well enough to have heard 
Sant’ Ilario’s explanation. The presence of the surgeon, 
however, made any intimate conversation difficult. 

“1 came to find you,” said Giovanni in a low voice, 
‘^because everything has been set right in your absence, 
and I was afraid you might be killed at Mentana with- 
out receiving my apology.” 

Gouache looked at his companion in some surprise. 
He knew very well that Sant’ Ilario was not a man to 
make excuses without some very extraordinary reasons 
for such a step. It is a prime law of the code of honour, 
however, that an apology duly made must be duly accepted 
as putting an end to any quarrel, and Anastase saw at once 
that Giovanni had relinquished all intention of fighting. 

am very glad that everything is explained,” an- 
swered Gouache. “ I confess that I was surprised beyond 
measure by the whole affair.” 

regret having entered your rooms without your 
permission,” continued Giovanni who intended to go to 
the end of what he had undertaken. The pin was my 
wife’s, but the letter was written by another person with 
a view to influencing your conduct. I cannot explain 
here, but you shall know whatever is necessary when we 
are alone. Of course, if you still desire any satisfaction, 
I am at your service.” 


sant’ ilaeio. 


223 


“Pray do not suggest such a thing. I have no further 
feeling of annoyance in the matter.’^ 

Gouache insisted on being taken to his own lodgings, 
though SanP Ilario offered him the hospitality of the 
Palazzo Saracinesca. By four o’clock in the morning 
the ball was extracted and the surgeon took his leave, 
recommending sleep and quiet for his patient. Gouache, 
however, would not let Giovanni go* without hearing the 
end of the story. 

“The facts are very few,” said the latter after a 
moment’s hesitation. “ It appears that you had arranged 
to meet a lady on Sunday morning. A certain person 
whom I will not name discovered your intention, and 
conceived the idea of preventing the meeting by sending 
you a note purporting to come from the lady. As he 
could get none of her note-paper he possessed himself of 
some of my wife’s. He pinned the note on your table 
with the pin you had chanced to find. I was foolish 
enough to enter your room and I recognised the pin and 
the paper. You understand the rest.” 

Gouache laughed merrily. 

“ I understand that you did me a great service. I met 
the lady after all, but if I had received the note I would 
not have gone, and she would have waited for me. Do 
you mind telling me the name of the individual who 
tried to play me the trick? ” 

“ If you will excuse my discretion, I would rather not. 
He knows that his plan failed. I should not feel jus- 
tified in telling you his name, from other motives.” 

“As you please,” said Gouache. “I daresay I shall 
find him out.” 

So the interview ended and Giovanni went home to 
rest at last, almost as much worn out as Gouache him- 
self. He was surprised at the ease with which every- 
thing had been arranged, but he was satisfied with the 
result and felt that a weight had been taken from his 
mind. He slept long and soundly and awoke the next 
morning to hear that Corona was much better. 

The events of Saturday and Sunday had to all appear- 
ances smoothed many difficulties from the lives of those 
with whom my history is concerned. Corona and Gio- 
vanni were once more united, though the circumstances 


224 


sant’ ilario. 


that had produced so terrible a breach between them 
had left a shadow on their happiness. Gouache had 
fought his battle and had returned with a slight wound, 
so that as soon as he could go out he would be able to 
renew his visits at the Palazzo Montevarchi and see 
Paustina without resorting to any fiiore ingenious strata- 
gems. San Giacinto had failed to produce the trouble 
he had planned, brft his own prospects were brilliant 
enough. His marriage with Plavia was to take place on 
the last of the month and the preliminaries were being 
arranged as quickly as possible. Plavia herself was 
delighted with the new dignity she assumed in the 
family, and if she was not positively in love with San 
Giacinto, was enough attracted by him to look forward 
with pleasure upon the prospect of becoming his wife. 
Old Montevarchi alone seemed preoccupied and silent, 
but his melancholy mood was relieved by occasional 
moments of anticipated triumph, while he made frequent 
visits to the library and seemed to find solace in the 
conversation of the librarian, Arnoldo Meschini. 

In the future of each of these persons there was an 
element of uncertainty which most of them disregarded. 
As Corona recovered, Giovanni began to think that she 
would really forget as well as forgive all he had made 
her suffer. Gouache on his part entertained the most 
sanguine hopes of marrying Paustina. Montevarchi 
looked forward with assurance to the success of his plot 
against the Saracinesca. San Giacinto and Plavia were 
engaged, indeed, bur were not yet married. And yet the 
issue of none of these events was absolutely sure. 

The first matter with which we are concerned is the 
forgery of the clauses in the documents, which Meschini 
had undertaken to accomplish and actually finished in 
less than three weeks. It was indeed an easy task for a 
man so highly skilled in the manufacture of chirograhic 
antiquities, but he had found himself unexpectedly balked 
at the outset, and the ingenuity he displayed in overcom- 
ing the difficulties he met with is worth recording. 

It was necessary in the first place to ascertain whether 
there was a copy of the principal deed at the Chancery. 
He had no trouble in finding that such a copy existed, 
and was indeed fully prepared for tlie contingency. But 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


225 


when the parchment was produced, his face fell. It was 
a smaller sheet than the first and the writing was a little 
wider, so that the space at the foot of the first page was 
considerably less than in the original. He saw at once 
that it would be impossible to make the insertion, even 
if he could get possession of the document for a time long 
enough to execute the work. Moreover, though he was 
not actually watched while he read it, he could see that it 
would be almost impracticable to use writing materials 
in the office of the Chancery without being observed. 
He was able, however, to take out the original which he 
carried with him and to compare it with the copy. Both 
were by one hand, and the copy was only distinguished 
by the seal of the government office. It was kept, like 
all such documents, in a dusty case upon which were 
written the number and letter of the alphabet by which 
it was classified. 

Meschini hesitated only a moment, and then decided 
to substitute the original for the copy. Should the keeper 
of the archives chance to look at the parchment and dis- 
cover the absence of the seal, Meschini could easily 
excuse himself by saying that he had mistaken the two, 
and indeed with that one exception they were very much 
alike. The keeper, however, noticed nothing and Ar- 
noldo had the satisfaction of seeing him unsuspiciously 
return the cardboard case to its place on the shelves. • He 
went back to his room and set to work. 

The longer he looked at the sheet the more clearly he 
saw that it would be impossible to make the insertion. 
There was nothing to be done but to forge a new docu- 
ment with the added words. He did not like the idea, 
though he believed himself fully able to carry it out. 
There was a risk, he thought, which he had not meant to 
undertake ; but on the other hand the reward was great. 
He put forth all his skill to produce the imitation and 
completed it in ten days to his entire satisfaction. He 
understood the preparation of seals as well as the rest of 
his art, and had no difficulty in making a die which cor- 
responded precisely with the wax. In the first place he 
took off the impression carefully with kneaded bread. 
From this with a little plaster of Baris he reproduced the 
seal, which he very carefully retouched with a fine steel 

Q 


226 


sant’ ilario. 


instrument until it was quite perfect. Over this again 
he poured melted lead, thus making a hard die with which 
he could stamp the wax without danger of breaking the 
instrument. Once more he retouched the lead with a 
graving tool, using a lens for the work and ultimately 
turning out an absolutely accurate copy of the seal used 
in the Chancery office. He made experiments as he pro- 
ceeded, and when he was at last satisfied he turned to the 
actual forgery, which was a longer matter and required 
greater skill and patience. Nothing was omitted which 
could make the fraud complete. The parchment assumed 
the exact shade under his marvellous manipulation. 
The smallest roughness was copied with faultless pre- 
cision, and then by many hours of handling and the use 
of a little dust collected among the books in the library, 
h^ imparted to the whole the appearance of age which 
was indispensable. When he had finished he showed 
his work to old Montevarchi, but by an inherent love of 
duplicity did not tell him that the whole document was 
forged, merely pointing to the inserted clause as a master- 
piece of imitation. First, however, he pretended that 
the copy had actually contained the inserted words, and 
the prince found it hard to believe that this was not the 
case. Meschini was triumphant. 

Again he returned to the Chancery and substituted 
what he had written for the first original upon which he 
had now to make the insertion. There was no difficulty 
here, and yet he hesitated before beginning. It seemed 
to him safer after all to forge the whole of the second as 
he had done the first. A slip of the pen, an unlucky drop 
of ink might mar the work and excite suspicion, whereas 
if he made a mistake upon a fresh sheet of parchment he 
could always begin again. There was only one danger. 
The Saracinesca might have made some private mark 
upon the original which should elude even his microscopic 
examination. He spent nearly a day in examining the 
sheet with a lens but could discover nothing. Being 
satisfied of the safety of the proceeding he executed the 
forgery with the same care he had bestowed upon the 
first, and showed it to his employer. The latter could 
scarcely believe his eyes, and was very far from imagin- 
ing that the two orignals were intact and carefully 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


227 


locked up in Mesckini’s room. The prince took the 
document and studied its contents again during many 
hours before he finally decided to return it to old Sara- 
cinesca. 

It was a moment of intense excitement. He hesitated 
whether he should take the manuscripts back himself or 
send them by a messenger. Had he been sure of con- 
trolling himself, he would have gone in person, but he 
knew that if Saracinesca should chance to look over the 
writing when they were together, it would be almost im- 
possible to conceal emotion under such a trial of nerve. 
What he really hoped was that the prince would think 
no more of the matter, and put away the parcel without 
examining the contents. 

Montevarchi pondered long over the course he should 
pursue, his eyes gleaming now and then with a wild 
triumph, and then growing dull and glassy at the horri- 
ble thought of discovery. Then again the consciousness 
that he was committing a great crime overcame him, and 
he twisted his fingers nervously. He had embarked upon 
the undertaking, however, and he fully believed that it 
would be impossible to draw back even had he wished to 
do so. The insertions were made and could not be erased. 
It is possible that at one moment, had Montevarchi known 
the truth, he would have drawn back; but it is equally 
sure that if he had done so he would sooner or later have 
regretted it, and would have done all in his power to 
recover lost ground and to perpetrate the fraud. The 
dominant passion for money, when it is on the point of 
being satisfied, is one of the strongest incentives to evil 
deeds, and in the present case the stake was enormous. 
He would not let it slip through his fingers. He rejoiced 
that the thing was done and that the millions of the 
Saracinesca were already foredoomed to be his. 

It is doubtful whether he was able to form a clear con- 
ception of what would take place after the trial was over 
and the property awarded to his son-in-law. It was 
perhaps enough for his ambition that his daughter should 
be Princess Saracinesca, and he did not doubt his power 
to control some part of the fortune. San Giacinto, who 
was wholly innocent in the matter, would, he thought, 
be deeply grateful for having been told of his position, 


228 


sant’ ilahio. 


and would show his gratitude in a befitting manner. 
Moreover, Monte varchi’s avarice was on a grand scale, 
and it was not so much the possession of more money for 
himself that he coveted, as the aggrandisement of his 
cliildren and grandchildren. The partriarchal system 
often produces this result. He would scarcely have 
known what to do with a greater fortune than he pos- 
sessed, but he looked forward with a wild delight to see- 
ing his descendants masters of so much wealth. The 
tact that he could not hope to enjoy his satisfaction very 
long did not detract from its reality or magnitude. The 
miser is generally long-lived, and does not begin to antic- 
ipate death until the catastrophe is near at hand. Even 
then it is a compensation to him to feel that the heirs of 
his body are to be made glorious by what he has accu- 
mulated, and his only fear is that they will squander 
what he has spent his strength in amassing. He educates 
his children to be thrifty and rejoices when they spend 
no money, readily believing them to be as careful as 
himself, and seldom reflecting that, if he furnished them 
with the means, their true disposition might turn out to 
be very different. It is so intensely painful to him to 
think of wealth being wasted that he cultivates the belief 
in the thriftiness of those who must profit by his death. 
If he has been born to worldly state as well as to a great 
inheritance, he extends the desire of accumulation to the 
fortunes of his relations and descendants, and shows a 
laudable anxiety that they should possess all that he can 
get for them, provided it is quite impossible that he 
should get it for himself. The powers of the world have 
been to a great extent built up on this principle, and it 
is a maxim in many a great family that there is no econ- 
omy like enriching one’s relatives to the third and fourth 
generation. 

The struggle in Montevarchi’s mind was so insignifi- 
cant and lasted so short a time, that it might be disre- 
garded altogether, were it not almost universally true 
that the human mind hesitates at the moment of commit- 
ting a crime. That moment of hesitation has prevented 
millions of frightful deeds, and has betrayed thousands 
of carefully plotted conspiracies whose success seemed 
assured, and it is amazing to think what an influence has 


sant’ ilarto. 


229 


been exerted upon the destinies of the human race by the 
instinctive fear of crossing the narrow boundary between 
right and wrong. The time occupied in such reflection 
is often only infinitesimal. It has been called the psy- 
chological momentj and if the definition means that it is 
the instant during which the soul suggests, it is a true 
one. It is then that our natural repulsion for evil asserts 
itself; it is then that the consequences of what we are 
about to do rise clearly before us as in a mirror; it is 
then that our courage is suddenly strengthened to do the 
right, or deserts us and leaves us mere instruments for 
the accomplishment of the wrong. If humanity had not 
an element of good in it, there would be no hesitation in 
the perpetration of crime, any more than a wild beast 
pauses before destroying a weaker creature. Perhaps 
there is no clearer proof of the existence of a divine soul 
in man, than his intuitive reluctance to do what in the 
lower animals would be most natural. Circumstances, 
education, the accidents of life, all tend to make this 
psychologic moment habitually shorter or longer. The 
suspense created in the conscience, during which the 
intelligence is uncertain how to act, may last a week or 
a second, a year or a quarter of an hour ; but it is a stage 
through which all must pass, both the professional crimi- 
nal and the just man who is perhaps tempted to commit 
a crime but once during his life. 

Old Lotario Montevarchi had never been guilty of any 
misdeed subject to the provisions of the penal code; but 
he had done most things in his love of money which were 
not criminal only because the law had not foreseen the 
tortuous peculiarities of his mind. Even now he per- 
suaded himself that the end was a righteous one, and that 
his course was morally justifiable. He had that power of 
deceiving himself which characterises the accomplished 
hypocrite, and he easily built up for San Giacinto a 
whole edifice of sympathy which seemed in his own view 
very real and moral. He reflected with satisfaction upon 
the probablt feelings of the old Leone Saracinesca, when, 
after relinquishing his birthright, he found himself mar- 
ried and the father of a son. How the poor man must 
have cursed his folly and longed for some means of un- 
doing the deed ! It was but common justice after all — it 


230 


sant’ ilario. 


was but common justice, and it was a mere accident of 
fate that Leone’s great-grandson, who was now to be 
reinstated in all the glories of his princely possessions, 
was also to marry Llavia Montevarchi. 

The prospect was too alluring and the suspense lasted 
but a moment, though he believed that he spent much 
time in considering the situation. The thoughts that 
really occupied him were not of a nature to hinder the 
accomplishment of his plan, and he was not at all sur- 
prised with himself when he finally tied up the packet 
and rang for a messenger. Detection was impossible, for 
by Meschini’s skilful management, the original and the 
official copy corresponded exactly and were such marvel- 
lous forgeries as to defy discovery. When it is considered 
that the greatest scientists and specialists in Europe have 
recently disagreed concerning documents which are un- 
doubtedly of modern manufacture, and which were pro- 
duced by just such men as Arnoldo Meschini, it need not 
appear surprising that the latter should successfully im- 
pose upon a court of law. The circumstances of the 
Saracinesca family history, too, lent an air of probability 
to the alleged facts. The poverty and temporary disap- 
pearance of Leone’s descendants explained why they had 
not attempted to recover their rights. Nay, more, since 
Leone had died when his son was an infant, and since 
there was no copy of the document among his papers, it 
was more than probable that the child on growing up had 
never known the nature of the deed, and would not have 
been likely to suspect what was now put forward as the 
truth, unless his attention were called to it by some per- 
son possessed of the necessary knowledge. 

The papers were returned to Prince Saracinesca in the 
afternoon with a polite note of thanks. It will be re- 
membered that the prince had not read the documents, as 
he had meant to do, in consequence of the trouble be- 
tween Giovanni and Corona which had made him forget 
his intention. He had not looked over them since he 
had been a young man and the recollection of their con- 
tents was far from clear. Having always supposed the 
collateral branch of his family to be extinct, it was only 
natural that he should have bestowed very little thought 
upon the ancient deeds which he believed to have been 
drawn up in due form and made perfectly legal. 


SA^’T’ ILARIO. 


231 


When he came home towards evening, he found the 
sealed packet upon his table, and having opened it, was 
about to return the papers to their place in the archives. 
It chanced that he had a letter to write, however, and he 
pushed the documents aside before taking them to the 
library. While he was writing, Giovanni entered the 
room. 

As has been seen, the prince had been very angry with 
his son for having allowed himself to doubt Corona, and 
though several days had elapsed since the matter had 
been explained, the old man’s wrath had not wholly sub- 
sided. He still felt considerable resentment against 
Giovanni, and his intercourse with the latter had not yet 
regained its former cordiality. As Sant’ Ilario entered 
the room, Saracinesca looked up with an expression 
which showed clearly that the interruption was unwel- 
come. 

‘‘Ho I disturb you?” asked Giovanni, noticing the 
look. 

“Ho you want anything?” 

“Ho — nothing especial.” 

Saracinesca’s eye fell upon the pile of manuscripts 
that lay on the table. It struck him that Giovanni might 
occupy himself by looking them over, while he himself 
finished the letter he had begun. 

“There are those deeds relating to San Giacinto,” he 
said, “you might look through them before they are put 
away. Montevarchi borrowed them for a day or two and 
has just sent them back.” 

Giovanni took the bundle and established himself in 
a comfortable chair beside a low stand, where the light 
of a lamp fell upon the pages as he turned them. He 
made no remark, but began to examine the documents, 
one by one, running his eye rapidly along the lines, as 
he read on mechanically, not half comprehending the 
sense of the words. He was preoccupied by thoughts of 
Corona and of what had lately happened, so that he 
found it hard to fix his attention. The prince’s pen 
scratched and spattered on the paper, and irritated Gio- 
vanni, for the old gentleman wrote a heavy, nervous 
handwriting, and lost his temper twenty times in five 
minutes, mentally cursing the ink, the paper and the pen, 
and wishing he could write like a shopman or a clerk. 


232 


sant’ ilario. 


Giovanni’s attention was arrested by the parchment on 
which the principal deed was executed, and he began to 
read the agreement with more care than he had bestowed 
upon the other papers. He understood Latin well enough, 
but the crabbed characters puzzled him from time to 
time. He read the last words on the first page without 
thinking very much of what they meant. 

. . . Eo tamen pacto, quod si praedicto Domino 
Leoni ex legitimo matrimonio heres nasceretur, instru- 
mentum hoc nullum, vanum atque plane invalidum fiat.” 

Giovanni smiled at the quaint law Latin, and then read 
the sentence over again. His face grew grave as he 
realised the tremendous import of those few words. 
Again and again he translated the phrase, trying to ex- 
tract from it some other meaning than that which was 
so unpleasantly clear. No other construction, however, 
could be put upon what was written, and for some minutes 
Giovanni sat staring at the fire, bewildered and almost 
terrified by his discovery. 

‘^Have you ever read those papers?” he asked at last, 
in a voice that made his father drop his pen and look .up. 

‘‘Not for thirty years.” 

“ Then you had better read them at once. San Gia- 
cinto is Prince Saracinesca and you and 1 are nobody.” 

Saracinesca uttered a fierce oath and sprang from his 
chair. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, seizing Giovanni’s 
arm violently with one hand and taking the parchment 
with the other. 

“ Eead for yourself. There — at the foot of the page, 
from ‘eo tamen pacto.’ It is plain enough. It says, 
‘On the understanding that if an heir be born to the 
aforesaid Don Leone, in lawful wedlock, the present 
instrument shall be wholly null, void and inefficacious.” 
An heir was born, and San Giacinto is that heir’s grand- 
son. You may tear up the document. It is not worth 
the parchment it is written upon, nor are we either.’' 

“You are mad, Giovannino!” exclaimed the prince, 
hoarsely, “that is not the meaning of the words. You 
have forgotten your Latin.” 

“I will get you a dictionary — or a lawyer — which- 
ever you prefer.” 


sant’ ilario. 


233 


“You are not in earnest, my boy. Look here — eo 
tamen pacto — that means ‘by this agreement’ — does it 
not? I am not so rusty as you seem to think.” 

“It means ‘on this understanding, however.’ Go on. 
Quod si, that if — praedicto Domino Leoni, to the afore- 
said Don Leone — ex legitimo matrimonio, from a law- 
ful marriage — heres nasceretur, an heir should be born 
— • hoc instrumentum, this deed — shall be null, worthless 
and invalid. You cannot get any other sense out of it. 
I have tried for a quarter of an hour. You and I are 
beggars. Saracinesca, Torleone, Barda, and all the rest 
belong to San Giacinto, the direct descendant of your 
great-grandfather’s elder brother. You are simple Don 
Leone, and I am plain Don Giovanni. That is what it 
means.” 

“Good God!” cried the old man in extreme horror. 
“ If you should be right ” 

“I am right,” replied Giovanni, very pale. 

With wild eyes and trembling hands the prince spread 
the document upon the table and read it over again. He 
turned it and went on to the end, his excitement bring- 
ing back in the moment such scholarship as he had once 
possessed and making every sentence as clear as the day. 

“Not even San Giacinto — not even a title!” he 
exclaimed desperately. He fell back in his chair, 
crushed by the tremendous blow that had fallen so unex- 
pectedly upon him in his old age. 

“Not even San Giacinto,” repeated Giovanni, stupidly. 
His presence of mind began to forsake him, too, and he 
sank down, burying his face in his hands. As in a dream 
he saw his cousin installed in the very chair where his 
father now sat, master of the house in which he, Gio- 
vanni, had been born, like his father before him, master 
of the fortresses and castles, the fair villas and the broad 
lands, the palaces and the millions to which Giovanni 
had thought himself heir, lord over the wealth and 
inheritances of his race, dignified by countless titles and 
by all the consideration that falls to the lot of the great 
in this world. 

For a long time neither spoke, for both were equally 
overwhelmed by the magnitude of the disaster that hung 
over their heads. They looked furtively at each other, 


234 


sant’ ilario. 


and each saw that his companion was white to the lips. 
The old man was the first to break the silence. 

“ At all events, San Giacinto does not know how the 
deed stands,” he said. 

It will make it all the harder to tell him, ” replied 
Giovanni. 

‘‘To tell him? You would not be so mad ” 

“Do you think it would be honourable,” asked the 
younger man, “ for us to remain in possession of what 
clearly does not belong to us? I will not do it.” 

“We have been in possession for more than a century.” 

“ That is no reason why we should continue to steal 
another man’s money,” said Giovanni. “We are men. 
Let us act like men. It is bitter. It is horrible. But 
we have no other course. After all. Corona has Astrar- 
dente. She will give you a home. She is rich.” 

“Me? Why do you say me? Us both.” 

“I will work for my living,” said Giovanni, quietly. 
“I am young. I will not live on my wife.” 

“ It is absurd! ” exclaimed the prince. “ It is Quixotic. 
San Giacinto has plenty of money without ruining us. 
Even if he finds it out I will fight the case to the end. 
I am master here, as my father and my father’s father 
were before me, and I will not give up what is mine 
without a struggle. Besides, who assures us that he is 
really what he represents himself to be? What proves 
that he is really the descendant of that same Leone?” 

“For that matter,” answered Giovanni, “he will have 
to produce very positive proofs, valid in law, to show 
that he is really the man. I will give up everything to 
the lawful heir, but I will certainly not turn beggar to 
please an adventurer. But I say that, if San Giacinto 
represents the elder branch of our house, we have no 
right here. If I were sure of it I would not sleep another 
night under this roof.” 

The old man could not withhold his admiration. There 
was something supremely noble and generous about Gio- 
vanni’s readiness to sacrifice everything for justice which 
made his old heart beat with a strange pride. If he was 
reluctant to renounce his rights it was after all more on 
Giovanni’s account, and for the sake of Corona and little 
Orsino. He himself was an old man and had lived most 
of his life out already. 


sant’ ilario. 


235 


“You have your mother^s heart, Giovannino/’ he said 
simply, but there was a slight moisture in his eyes, 
which few emotions had ever had the power to bring 
there. 

“It is not a question of heart,” replied Giovanni. 
“We cannot keep what does not belong to us.” 

“We will let the law decide what we can keep. Do 
you realise what it would be like, what a position we 
should occupy if we were suddenly declared beggars? 
We should be absolute paupers. We do not own a foot 
of land, a handful of money that does not come under the 
provisions of that accursed clause.” 

“Wait a minute,” exclaimed Giovanni, suddenly recol- 
lecting that he possessed something of his own, a fact he 
had wholly forgotten in the excitement of his discovery. 
“We shall not be wholly without resources. It does not 
follow from this deed that we must give to San Giacinto 
any of the property our branch of the family has acquired 
by marriage, from your great grandfather’s time to this. 
It must be very considerable. To begin with me, my for- 
tune came from my mother. Then there was your 
mother, and your father’s mother, and so on. San Gia- 
cinto has no claim to anything not originally the property 
of the old Leone who made this deed.” 

“That is true,” replied the prince, more hopefully. 
“It is not so bad as it looked. You must be right about 
that point.” 

“Unless the courts decide that San Giacinto is entitled 
to compensation and interest, because four generations 
have been kept out of the property.” 

Both men looked grave. The suggestion was unpleas- 
ant. Such judgments had been given before and might 
be given again. 

“ We had better send for our lawyer,” said the prince, 
at last. “ The sooner we know the real value of that bit 
of parchment the better it will be for us. I cannot bear 
the suspense of waiting a day to know the truth. Imag- 
ine that the very chair I am sitting upon may belong to 
San Giacinto. I never liked the fellow, from the day 
when I first found him in his inn at Aquila.” 

“It is not his fault,” answered Giovanni, quietly. 
“This is a perfectly simple matter. We did not know 


236 


sant’ ilario. 


what these papers were. Even if we had known, we 
should have laughed at them until we discovered that we 
had a cousin. After all we shall not starve, and what is 
a title? The Pope will give you another when he knows 
what has happened. I would as soon be plain Don Gio- 
vanni as Prince of SanP Ilario.” 

“For that matter, you can call yourself Astrardente.” 

“I would rather not,” said Giovanni, with something 
like a laugh. “But I must tell Corona this news.” 

“ Wait till she is herself again. It might disturb her 
too much.” 

“You do not know her!” Giovanni laughed heartily 
this time. “If you think she cares for such things, you 
are very much mistaken in her character. She will bear 
the misfortune better than any of us. Courage, padre 
mio! Things are never so black as they look at first.” 

“I hope not, my boy, I hope not! Go and tell your 
wife, if you think it best. I would rather be alone.” 

Giovanni left the room, and Saracinesca was alone. 
He sank back once more in his chair and folded his 
strong brown hands together upon the edge of the table 
before him. In spite of all Giovanni could say, the old 
man felt keenly the horror of his position. Only those 
who, having been brought up in immense wealth and 
accustomed from childhood to the pomp and circumstance 
of a very great position, are suddenly deprived of every- 
thing, can understand what he felt. 

He was neither avaricious nor given to vanity. He 
had not wasted his fortune, though he had spent mag- 
nificently a princely income. He had not that small 
affection for greatness which, strange to say, is often 
found in the very great. But his position was part of 
himself, so that he could no more imagine himself plain 
Don Leone Saracinesca, than he could conceive himself 
boasting of his ancient titles. And yet it was quite 
plain to him that he must either cease to be a prince 
altogether, or accept a new title as a charity from his 
sovereign. As for his fortune, it was only too plain that 
the greater part of it had never been his. 

To a man of his temperament the sensation of finding 
himself a mere impostor was intolerable. His first 
impulse had of course been to fight the case, and had the 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


237 


attack upon his position come from San Giacinto, he 
would probably have done so. But his own son had dis- 
covered the truth and had put the matter clearly before 
him, in such a light as to make an appeal to his honour. 
He had no choice but to submit. He could not allow 
himself to be outdone in common honesty by the boy he 
loved, nor could he have been guilty of deliberate injus- 
tice, for his own advantage, after he had been convinced 
that he had no right to his possessions. He belonged to 
a race of men who had frequently committed great crimes 
and done atrocious deeds, notorious in history, from 
motives of personal ambition, for the love of women or 
out of hatred for men, but who had never had the repu- 
tation of loving money or of stooping to dishonour for 
its sake. As soon as he was persuaded that everything 
belonged to San Giacinto, he felt that he must resign all 
in favour of the latter. 

One doubt alone remained to be solved. It was not 
absolutely certain that San Giacinto was the man he 
represented himself to be. It was quite possible that he 
should have gained possession of the papers he held, by 
some means known only to himself; such things are 
often sold as curiosities, and as the last of the older 
branch of whom there was any record preserved in Borne 
had died in obscurity, it was conceivable that the ex- 
innkeeper might have found or bought the documents 
he had left, in order to call himself Marchese di San 
Giacinto. Saracinesca did not go so far as to believe 
that the latter had any knowledge whatsoever of the 
main deed which was about to cause so much trouble, 
unless he had seen it in the hands of Montevarchi, in 
which case he could not be blamed if he brought a suit 
for the recovery of so much wealth. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Giovanni was quite right in his prediction concerning 
Corona’s conduct. He found her in her dressing-room, 
lying upon the couch near the fire, as he had found her 


238 


sant’ ilario. 


on that fatal evening three weeks .earlier. He sat down 
beside her and took her hand in his. She had not wholly 
recovered her strength yet, but her beauty had returned 
and seemed perfected by the suffering through which she 
had passed. In a few words he told her the whole story, 
to which she listened without showing any great sur- 
prise. Once or twice, while he was speaking, her dark 
eyes sought his with an expression he did not fully under- 
stand, but which was at least kind and full of sympathy. 

Are you quite sure of all the facts?” she asked when 
he had finished. Are you certain that San Giacinto is 
the man? I cannot tell why, but I have always dis- 
trusted him since he first came to us.” 

That is the only point that remains to be cleared up, ” 
answered Giovanni. If he is not the man he will not 
venture to take any steps in the matter, lest he should 
be exposed and lose what he has.” 

“ What will you do? ” 

hardly know. If he is really our cousin, we must 
give up everything without a struggle. We. are impos- 
tors, or little better. I think I ought to tell him plainly 
how the deed is made out, in order that he may judge 
whether or not he is in a position to prove his identity.” 

“ Do you imagine that he does not know all about it as 
well as we ourselves?” 

^‘Probably not — otherwise he would have spoken.” 

^‘The papers came back from Monte varchi to-day,” 
said Corona. It is gratuitous to suppose that the old 
man has not told his future son-in-law what they con- 
tain. Yes — you see it yourself. Therefore San Giacinto 
knows. Therefore, also, if he is the man he pretends to 
be, he will let you know his intentions soon enough. I 
fancy you forgot that in your excitement. If he says 
nothing, it is because he cannot prove his rights.” 

It is true,” replied Giovanni, “ I did not think of that. 
Nevertheless I would like to be beforehand. I wish him 
to know that we shall make no opposition. It is a point 
of honour.” 

Which a woman cannot understand, of course, ” added 
Corona, calmly. 

“I did not say that. I do not mean it.” 

“Well — do you want my advice?” 


sant’ ilarto. 


239 


“Always.’^ 

The single word was nttered with an accent implying 
more than mere trust, and was accompanied by a look 
full of strong feeling. But Corona’s expression did not 
change. Her eyes returned the glance quietly, without 
affectation, neither lovingly nor unlovingly, but indiffer- 
ently. Giovanni felt a sharp little pain in his heart as 
he realised the change that had taken place in his wife. 

“ My advice is to do nothing in the matter. San Gia- 
cinto may be an impostor; indeed, it is not at all unlikely. 
If he is, he will take advantage of your desire to act 
generously. He will be forewarned and forearmed and 
will have time to procure all the proofs he wants. What 
could you say to him? Hf you can prove your birth, I 
give you all I possess.’ He will at once see that noth- 
ing else is necessary, and if he is a rogue he will succeed. 
Besides, as I tell you, he knows what that deed contains 
as well as you do, and if he is the man he will bring an 
action against your father in a week. If he does not, 
you gain the advantage of having discovered that he is 
an impostor without exposing yourself to be robbed.” 

“It goes against the grain,” said Giovanni. “But I 
suppose you are right.” 

“You will do as you think best. I have no power to 
make you follow my advice.” 

“No power? Ah, Corona, do not say that! ” 

A short silence followed, during which Corona looked 
placidly at the fire, while Giovanni gazed at her dark 
face and tried to read the thoughts that were passing in 
her mind. She did not speak, however, and his guess- 
work was inconclusive. What hurt him most was her 
indifference, and he longed to discover by some sign that 
it was only assumed. 

“ I would rather do as you think best, ” he said at last. 

She glanced at him and then looked back at the blazing 
logs. 

“I have told you what I think,” she answered. “It 
is for you to judge and to decide. The whole matter 
affects you more than it does me.” 

“Is it not the same?” 

“No. If you lose the Saracinesca titles and property 
we shall still be rich enough. You have a fortune of 


240 


SANT’ ILAKTO. 


your own, and so have I. The name is, after all, an 
affair which concerns you personally. I should have 
married you as readily had you been called anything 
else.” 

The reference to the past made Giovanni’s heart leap, 
and the colour came quickly to his face. It was almost 
as though she had said that she would have loved him as 
well had he borne another name, and that might mean 
that she loved him still. But her calmness belied the 
hasty conclusion he drew from her words. He thought 
she looked like a statue, as she lay there in her magnifi- 
cent rest, her hands folded upon her knees before her, 
her eyes so turned that he could see only the drooping 
lids. 

“ A personal affair ! ” he exclaimed suddenly, in a bitter 
tone. “It was different once, Corona.” 

For the first time since they had been talking her face 
betrayed some emotion. There was the slightest possible 
quiver of the lip as she answered. 

“Your titles were never anything but a personal 
affair. ” 

“ What concerns me concerns you, dear,” said Giovanni, 
tenderly. 

“ In so much that I am very sorry — sincerely sorry, 
when anything troubles you.” Her voice was kind and 
gentle, but there was no love in the words. “Believe 
me, Giovanni, I would give all I possess to spare you 
this.” 

“ All you possess — is there not a little love left in 
your all? ” 

The cry came from his heart. He took her hand in 
both of his, and leaned forward towards her. Her fingers 
lay passively in his grasp, and the colour did not change 
in her dark cheeks. A moment ago there had been in 
her heart a passionate longing for the past, which had 
almost betrayed itself, but when he spoke of present love 
his words had no power to rouse a responsive echo. And 
yet she could not answer him ‘roughly, for he was evi- 
dently in earnest. She said nothing, therefore, but left 
her hand in his. His love, which had been as fierce and 
strong as ever, even while he had doubted her faith, began 
to take new proportions of which he had never dreamt. 


SANT’ ILAKIO. 


241 


He felt like a man struggling with, death in some visible 
and tangible shape. 

“Is it all over? Will you never love me again?’’ he 
asked hoarsely. 

Her averted face told no tale, 'and still her fingers lay 
inert between his broad hands. She knew how he suffered, 
and yet she would not soothe him with the delusive hope 
for which he longed so intensely. 

“For God’s sake. Corona, speak to me ! Is there never 
to be any love again? Can you never forgive me?” 

“Ah, dear, I have forgiven you wholly — there is not 
an unkind thought left in my heart for you!” She 
turned and laid the hand that was free upon his shoul- 
der, looking into his face with an expression that was 
almost imploring. “Do not think it is that, oh, not 

^at ! I would forgive you again, a thousand times ” 

' “And love me?” he cried, throwing his arms round 
her neck, and kissing her passionately again and again. 
But suddenly he drew back, for there was no response to 
his caresses. He turned very pale as he saw the look in 
her eyes. There were tears there, for the love that had 
been, for his present pain, perhaps, but there was not one 
faint spark of the fire that had burned in other days. 

“ I cannot say it 1 ” she answered at last. “ Oh, do not 
make me say it, for the sake of all that was once ! ” 

In his emotion Giovanni slipped from the low chair 
and knelt beside his wife, one arm still around her. The 
shock of disappointment, in the very moment when he 
thought she was yielding, was almost more than he could 
bear. Had not her heart grown wholly cold, the sight 
of his agonised face would have softened her. She was 
profoundly moved and pitied him exceedingly, but she 
could not do more. 

“ Giovanni — do not look at me so ! If I could ! If I 
only could ” 

“Are you made of stone?” he asked, in a voice chok- 
ing with pain. 

“What can I do! ” she cried in despair, sinking back 
and hiding her face in her hands. She was in almost as 
great distress as he himself. 

“Love me. Corona! Only love me, ever so little! 
Bemember that you loved me once ” 


242 


sant’ ilario. 


“ God knows how dearly ! Could I forget it, I might 
love you now 

Oh, forget it then, beloved ! Let it be undone. Let 
the past be unlived. Say that you never loved me before, 
and let the new life begin to-day — can you not? Will 
you not? It is so little I ask, only the beginning. I will 
make it grow till it shall fill your heart. Sweet love, 
dear love ! love me but enough to say it ’’ 

“Do you think I would not, if I could? Ah, I would 
give my whole life to bring back what is gone, but I can- 
not. It is dead. You — no, not you — some evil thing 
has killed it. Say it? Yes, dear, I would say it — I will 
say it if you bid me. Giovanni, I love you — yes, those 
are the words. Do they mean anything? Can I make 
them sound true? Can I make the dead alive again? Is 
it anything but the breath of my lips? Oh, Giovanni, 
my lost love, why are you not Giovanni still?’’ 

Again his arms went round her and he pressed her 
passionately to his heart. She turned pale, and though 
she tried to hide it, she shrank from, his embrace, while 
her lips quivered and the tears of pain started in her 
eyes. She suffered horribly, in a way she had never 
dreamed of as possible. He saw what she felt and let 
her fall back upon the cushions, while he still knelt be- 
side her. He saw that his mere touch was repugnant to 
her, and yet he could not leave her. He saw how bravely 
she struggled to bear his kisses, and how revolting they 
were to her, and yet the magic of her beauty held his 
passionate nature under a spell, while the lofty dignity 
of her spirit enthralled his soul. She was able to forgive, 
though he had so injured her, she was willing to love 
him, if she could, though he had wounded her so cruelly ; 
it was torture to think that she could go no further, that 
he should never again hear the thrill of passion in her 
voice, nor see the whole strength of her soul rise in her 
eyes when his lips met hers. 

There was something grand and tragic in her suffering, 
in her realisation of all that he had taken from her by 
his distrust. She sank back on her couch, clasping her 
hands together so tightly that the veins showed clearly 
beneath the olive skin. As she tried to overcome her 
emotion, the magnificent outline of her face was enno- 


sant’ ilario. 


243 


bled by her pain, the lids closed over her dark eyes, and 
the beautiful li]3S set themselves sternly together, as 
though resolved that no syllable should pass them which 
could hurt him, even though they could not formulate 
the words he would have given his soul to hear. 

Giovanni knelt beside her, and gazed into her face. 
He knew she had not fainted, and he was almost glad 
that for a moment he could not see her eyes. Tenderly, 
timidly, he put out his hand and laid it on her clasped 
lingers, then drew it back again very quickly, as though 
suddenly remembering that the action might pain her. 
Her heavy hair was plaited into a thick black coil that 
fell upon the arm of the couch. He bent lower and 
pressed his lips upon the silken tress, noiselessly, fearing 
to disturb her, fearing lest she should even notice it. He 
had lost all his pride and strength and dominating power 
of character and he felt himself unworthy to touch her. 

But he was too strong a man to continue long in such 
a state. Before Corona opened her eyes, he had risen to 
his feet and stood at some distance from her, resting his 
arm upon the chimney-piece, watching her still, but 
with an expression which showed that a change had 
taken place in him, and that his resolute will had once 
more asserted itself. 

“ Corona ! ’’ he said at last, in a voice that was almost 
calm. 

Without changing her position she looked up at him. 
She had been conscious that he had left her side, and she 
experienced a physical sensation of relief. 

“Corona,” he repeated, when he saw that she heard 
him, “I do not complain. It is all my fault and my 
doing. Only, let it not be hate, dear. I will not touch 
you, I will not molest you. I will pray that you may 
love me again. I will try and do such things as may 
make you love me as you did once. Borgive me, if my 
kisses hurt you. I did not know they would, but I have 
seen it. I am not a brute. If I were, you would put 
something of the human into my heart. It shall never 
happen again, that I forget. Our life must begin again. 
The old Giovanni was your husband, and is dead. It is for 
me to win another love from you. Shall it be so, dear? 
Is it not to be all different — even to my very name?” 


244 


SANT' ILARTO. 


^‘All, all different/’ repeated Corona in a low voice. 
“ Oh, how could I be so unkind! How could I show you 
what I felt?” 

Suddenly, and without the least warning, she sprang 
to her feet and made two steps towards him. The im- 
pulse was there, but the reality was gone. Her arms 
were stretched out, and there was a look of supreme 
anguish in her eyes. She stopped short, then turned 
away once more, and as she sank upon the couch, bury- 
ing her face in the cushions, the long restrained tears 
broke forth, and she sobbed as though her heart must 
break. 

Giovanni wished that his own suffering could find such 
an outlet, but there was no such relief possible for his 
hardy masculine nature. He could not bear the sight of 
her grief, and yet he knew that he could not comfort her, 
that to lay his hand upon her forehead would only add a 
new sting to the galling wound. He turned his face away 
and leaned against the heavy chimney-piece, longing to 
shut out the sound of her sobs from his ears, submitting 
to a torture that might well have expiated a greater mis- 
deed than his. The time was past when he could feel 
that an unbroken chain of evidence had justified him in 
doubting and accusing Corona. He knew the woman he 
had injured better now than he had known her then, for 
he understood the whole depth and breadth of the love he 
had so ruthlessly destroyed. It was incredible to him, 
now, that he should ever have mistrusted a creature so 
noble, so infinitely grander than himself. Every tear she 
shed fell like molten fire upon his heart, every sob that 
echoed through the quiet room was a reproach that racked 
his heart-strings and penetrated to the secret depths of 
his soul. He could neither undo what he had done nor 
soothe the pain inflicted by his actions. He could only 
stand there, and submit patiently to the suffering of his 
expiation. 

The passionate outburst subsided at last, and Corona 
lay pale and silent upon her cushions. She knew what 
he felt, and pitied him more than herself. 

It is foolish of me to cry, ” she said presently. It 
cannot help you.” 

^‘Help me?” exclaimed Giovanni, turning suddenly. 


sant’ ilario. 245 

“It is not I, it is you. I would liave died to save you 
those tears.” 

“ I know it — would I not give my life to spare you 
this? And I will. Come and sit beside me. Take my 
hand. Kiss me — be your own self. It is not true that 
your kisses hurt me — it shall not be true ” 

“You do not mean it, dear,” replied Giovanni, sadly. 
“I know how true it is.” 

“It shall not be true. Am I a devil to hurt you so? 
Was it all your fault? Was I not wrong too? In- 
deed ” 

“Ko, my beloved. There is nothing wrong in you. 
If you do not love me ” 

“I do. I will, in spite of myself.” 

“You mean it, darling — I know. You are good 
enough, even for that. But you cannot. It must be all 
my doing, now.” 

“I must,” cried Corona, passionately. “Unless I love 
you, I shall die. I was wrong, too, you shall let me say 
it. Was I not mad to do the things I did? What man 
would not have suspected? Would a man be a man at 
all, if he did not watch the woman he loves? Would love 
be love without jealousy when there seems to be cause for 
it? Should I have married you, had I thought that you 
would be so careless as to let me do such things without 
interfering? Was it not my fault when I came back that 
night and would not tell you what had happened? Was 
it not madness to ask you to trust me, instead of telling 
you all? And yet,” she turned her face away, “and yet, 
it hurt me so ! ” 

“ You shall not blame yourself. Corona. It was all my 
fault.” 

“Come and sit here, beside me. There — take my 
hand. Does it tremble? Do I draw it away? Am I not 
glad that it should rest in yours? Look at me — am I not 
glad? Giovanni — dear husband — true love ! Look into 
my eyes. Do you not see that I love you? Why do you 
shake your head and tremble? It is true, I tell you.” 

Suddenly the forced smile faded from her face, the 
artificial expression she tried so pathetically to make real, 
disappeared, and gave place to a look of horror and fear. 
She drew back her hand and turned desperately away. 


246 


sant’ ilario. 


“I am lying, lying — and to you! ” she moaned. “Oh 
God 1 have mercy, for I am the most miserable woman in 
the world ! ’’ 

Giovanni sat still, resting his chin upon his hand and 
staring at the lire. His hopes had risen for a moment, 
and had fallen again, if possible more completely than 
before. Every line of his strongly-marked face betrayed 
the despair that overwhelmed him. And yet he was no 
longer weak, as he had been the first time. He was won- 
dering at the hidden depths of Corona’s nature which had 
so suddenly become visible. He comprehended the mag- 
nitude of a passion which in being extinguished could 
leave such emotions behind, and he saw with awful dis- 
tinctness the beauty of what he had lost and the depth 
of the abyss by which he was separated from it. Only 
a woman who had loved to distraction could make such 
desperate efforts to revive an affection that was dead; 
only a woman capable of the most lofty devotion could 
sink her pride and her own agony, in the attempt to make 
the man she had loved forgive himself. He could have 
borne her reproaches more easily than the sight of her 
anguish, but she would not reproach him. He could 
have borne her hatred almost better than such unselfish 
forgiveness, and yet she had forgiven him. For the first 
time in his life he wished that he might die — he, who 
loved life so dearly. Perhaps it would be easier for her 
to see him dead at her feet than to feel that he must 
always be near her and that she could not love him. 

“ It is of no use, dear, ” he said, at last. “ I was right. 
The old Giovanni is dead. We must begin our life again. 
Will you let me try? Will you let me do my best to live 
for you and to raise up a new love in your heart? ” 

“ Can you? Can we go back to the old times when we 
first met? Canyon? Can I?” 

“ If you will ” 

“If I will? Is there anything I would not do to gain 
that ? ” 

“ Our lives may become so different from what they 
now are, as to make it more easy,” said Giovanni. “Do 
you realise how everything will be changed when we have 
given up this house? Perhaps it is better that it should 
be so, after all.” 


sant’ ilario. 


247 


“Yes — far better. Oh, I am so sorry for you! ” 

“ Who pities, may yet love, ’’ he said in low tones. 

Corona did not make any answer, but for many minutes 
lay watching the dancing flames. Giovanni knew that it 
would be wiser to say nothing more which could recall 
the past, and when he spoke again it was to ask her opin- 
ion once more concerning the best course to pursue in 
regard to the property. 

“I still think,’’ answered Corona, “that you had better 
do nothing for the present. You will soon know what 
San Giacinto means to do. You may be sure that if he 
has any rights he will not forget to press them. If it 
comes to the worst and you are quite sure that he is the 
man you — that is to say, your father — can give up every- 
thing without a suit. It is useless to undertake the con- 
sequences of a misfortune which may never occur. It 
would be reckless to resign your inheritance without a 
struggle, when San Giacinto, if he is an honest man, 
would insist upon the case being tried in law.” 

“ That is true. I will take your advice. I am so much 
disturbed about other things that I am inclined to go to 
all extremes at once. Will you dine with us this even- 
ing ? ” 

“I think not. Give me one more day. I shall be 
stronger to-morrow.” 

“I have tired you,” exclaimed Giovanni in a tone of 
self-reproach. Corona did not answer the remark, but 
held out her hand with a gentle smile. 

“Good-night, dear,” she said. 

An almost imperceptible expression of pain passed 
quickly over Giovanni’s face as he touched her fingers 
with his lips. Then he left the room without speaking 
again. 

In some respects he was glad that he had induced 
Corona to express herself. He had no illusions left, for 
he knew the worst and understood that if his wife was 
ever to love him again there must be a new wooing. It 
is not necessary to dwell upon what he felt, for in the 
course of the conversation he had not been able to con- 
ceal his feelings. Disappointment had come upon him 
very suddenly, and might have been followed by terrible 
consequences, had he not foreseen, as in a dream of the 


248 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


future, a possibility of winning back Coronals love. The 
position in which they stood with regard to each other 
was only possible because they were exceptional people 
and had both loved so well that they were willing to do 
anything rather than forego the hope of loving again. 
Another man would have found it hard to own himself 
wholly in the wrong; a woman less generous would have 
either pretended successfully that she still loved, or 
would not have acknowledged that she suffered so keenly 
in finding her affection dead. Perhaps, too, if there had 
been less frankness there might have been less difficulty 
in reviving the old passion, for love has strange ways of 
hiding himself, and sometimes shows himself in ways 
even more unexpected. 

A profound student of human nature would have seen 
that a mere return to the habit of pleasant intercourse 
could not suffice to forge afresh such a bond as had been 
broken, where two such persons were concerned. Some- 
thing more was necessary. It was indispensable that 
some new force should come into play, to soften Corona’s 
strong nature and to show Giovanni in his true light. 
Unfortunately for them such a happy conclusion was 
scarcely to be expected. Even if the question of the 
Saracinesca property were decided against them, an issue 
which, at such a time, was far from certain, they would 
still be rich. Poverty might have drawn them together 
again, but they could not be financially ruined. Corona 
would have all her own fortune, while Giovanni was more 
than well provided for by what his mother had left him. 
The blow would tell far more heavily upon Giovanni’s 
pride than upon his worldly wealth, severe as the loss 
must be in respect of the latter. It is impossible to say 
whether Corona might not have suffered as much as Gio- 
vanni himself, had the prospect of such a catastrophe 
presented itself a few weeks earlier. At present it 
affected her very little. The very name of Saracinesca 
was disagreeable to her hearing, and the house she lived 
in had lost all its old charm for her. She would willingly 
have left Pome to travel for a year or two rather than 
continue to inhabit a place so full of painful recollec- 
tions; she would gladly have seen another name upon 
the cards she left at her friends’ houses — even the once 


sant’ ilakio. 


249 


detested name of Astrardente. When she had married 
Giovanni she had not been conscious that she became 
richer than before. When one had everything, what 
difference could a few millions more bring into life? It 
was almost a pity that they could not become poor and 
be obliged to bear together the struggles and privations 
of poverty. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

San Giacinto and Plavia were married on Saturday the 
thirtieth of November, thereby avoiding the necessity of 
paying a fee for being united during Advent, much to 
the satisfaction of Prince Montevarchi. The wedding 
was a brilliant affair, and if the old prince’s hospitality 
left something to be desired, the display of liveries, 
coaches and family silver was altogether worthy of so 
auspicious an occasion. Everybody was asked, and 
almost everybody went, from the Saracinesca to Anas- 
tase Gouache, from Valdarno to Arnoldo Meschini. 
Even Spicca was there, as melancholy as usual, but evi- 
dently interested in the proceedings. He chanced to find 
himself next to Gouache in the crowd. 

“ I did not expect to see you here, ” he remarked. 

I have been preserved from a variety of dangers in 
order to assist at the ceremony, ” answered the Zouave, 
with a laugh. ‘‘At one time I thought it more likely 
that I should be the person of importance at a funeral.” 

“So did I. However, it could not be helped.” Spicca 
did not smile. 

“You seem to regret it,” observed Gouache, who knew 
his companion’s eccentric nature. 

“ Only on general principles. Eor the rest, I am de- 
lighted to see you. Come and breakfast with me when 
this affair is over. We will drink to the happiness of 
two people who will certainly be very unhappy before 
long.” 

“ Ourselves? ” 

“No. The bride and bridegroom. ‘Ye, who enter. 


250 


sant’ ilario. 


leave all hope behind ! ’ How can people be so foolish 
as to enter into an engagement from which there is no 
issue? The fools are not all dead yet.” 

“I am one of them,” replied Gouache. 

“You will probably have your wish. Providence has 
evidently preserved you from sudden death in order to de- 
stroy you by lingering torture. Is the wedding day fixed? ” 

“I wish it were.” 

“And the bride?” 

“How can I tell?” 

“Do you mean to say that,. as an opinion, you would 
rather be married than not? The only excuse for the 
folly of marrying is the still greater folly of loving a 
woman enough to marry her. Of course, a man who is 
capable of that, is capable of anything. Here comes the 
bride with her father. Think of being tied to her until 
a merciful death part you. Think of being son-in-law 
to that old man, until heaven shall be pleased to remove 
him. Think of calling that stout English lady, mother- 
in-law, until she is at last overtaken by apoplexy. Think 
of calling all those relations brothers and sisters, Ascanio, 
Onorato, Andrea, Isabella, Bianca, Faustina! It is a 
day’s work to learn their names and titles. She wears 
a veil — to hide her satisfaction — a wreath of orange 
flowers, artificial, too, made of paper and paste and wire, 
symbols of innocence, of course, pliable and easily 
patched together. She looks down, lest the priest should 
see that her eyes are laughing. Her father is whispering 
words of comfort and encouragement into her ear. ‘Mind 
your expression, ’ he is sayfng, no doubt — ‘ you must not 
look as though you were being sacrificed, nor as though 
you were too glad to be married, for everybody is watch- 
ing you. Do not say, I will, too loudly nor inaudibly 
either, and remember that you are my daughter.’ Very 
good advice. Now she kneels down and he crosses to 
the other side. She bends her head very low. She is 
looking under her elbow to see the folds of her train. 
You see — she moves her heel to make the gown fall 
better — I told you so. A pretty figure, all in white, 
before the great altar with the lights, and the priest in 
his robes, and the organ playing, and that Hercules in a 
black coat for a husband. Now she looks up. The rings 


sant’ ilario. 


251 


are there on the gold salver upon the altar. She has not 
seen hers, and is wondering whether it is of plain gold, 
or a band of diamonds, like the Princess Yaldarno^s. 
l^ow then — ego conjungo vos — the devil, my friend, it 
is an awful sight ! 

“ Cynic ! ” muttered Gouache, with a suppressed laugh. 

There — it is done now, and she is already thinking 
what it will be like to dine alone with him this evening, 
and several thousand evenings hereafter. Cynic, you 
say? There are no more cynics. They are all married, 
and must turn stoics if they can. Let us be off. No — 
there is mass. Well then, go down on your knees and 
pray for their souls, for they are in a bad case. Mar- 
riage is Satan’s hot-house for poisonous weeds. If any- 
thing can make a devil of an innocent girl it is marriage. 
If anything can turn an honest man into a fiend it is 
matrimony. Pray for them, poor creatures, if there is 
any available praying power left in you, after attending 
to the wants of your own soul, which, considering your 
matrimonial intentions, I should think very improbable.” 

Gouache looked at his companion curiously, for Spicca’s 
virulence astonished him. He was not at all intimate 
with the man and had never heard him express his 
views so clearly upon any subject. Unlike most people, 
he was not in the least afraid of the melancholy Italian. 

“Prom the way you talk,” he remarked, “one might 
almost imagine that you had been married yourself.” 

Spicca looked at him with an odd expression, in which 
there was surprise as well as annoyance, and instead of 
making any answer, crossed himself and knelt down upon 
the marble pavement. Gouache followed his example 
instinctively. 

Half an hour later the crowd moved slowly out of the 
church, and those who had carriages waited in the huge 
vestibule while the long line of equipages moved up to 
the gates. Gouache escaped from Spicca in the hope of 
getting a sight of Faustina before she drove away with 
her mother in one of the numerous Montevarchi coaches. 
Sant’ Ilario and Corona were standing by one of the 
pillars, conversing in low tones. 

“Montevarchi looked as though he knew it,” said 
Giovanni. 


252 / sant’ ilario. 

‘‘What?” asked Corona, quietly. 

“That his daughter is the future Princess Saracinesca.” 

“It remains to be seen Avhether he is right.” 

Gouache had been pushed by the crowd into one of the 
angles of the pilaster while the two speakers stood before 
one of the four pillars of which it was built up. The 
words astonished him so much that he forced his way 
out until he could see the Princess of SanP Ilario’s 
beautiful profile dark against the bright light of the 
street. She was still speaking, but he could no longer 
hear her voice ; some acoustic peculiarity of the columns 
had in all probability been the means of conveying to 
him the fragment of conversation he had overheard. 
Avoiding recognition, he slipped aw^ay through an open- 
ing in the throng and just succeeded in reaching the gate 
as the first of the Montevarchi carriages drew up. The 
numerous members of the family were gathered on the 
edge of the crowd, and Gouache managed to speak a few 
words with Faustina. 

The girPs delicate face lighted up when she was con- 
scious of his presence, and she turned her eyes lovingly 
to his. They met often now in public, though San Gia- 
cinto did his best to keep them apart. 

“Here is a secret,” said Gouache in a quick whisper. 
“ I have just heard Sant’ Ilario telling his wife that your 
sister is the future Princess Saracinesca. What does it 
mean? ” 

Faustina looked at him in the utmost astonishment. 
It was clear that she knew nothing of the matter at 
present. ^ 

“You must have heard wrong,” she answered. 

“Will you come to early mass to-morrow?” he asked 
hurriedly, for he had no time to lose. 

“ I will try — if it is possible. It will be easier now 
that San Giacinto is to be away. He knows everything, 
I am sure.” 

“ San Giacinto?” It was Gouache’s turn to be aston- 
ished. But explanations were impossible in such a 
crowd, and Faustina was already moving away. 

“ Say nothing about what I have told you, ” Anastase 
whispered as she left him. She bowed her lovely head 
in silence and passed on. 


sant’ ilario. 


253 


And so the Marchese di San Giacinto took Elavia 
Montevarchi for his wife, and all Kome looked on and 
smiled, and told imaginary stories of his former life, 
acknowledging, nevertheless, that Elavia had done very 
well — the stock phrase — since there was no doubt what- 
ever br^t that the gigantic bridegroom was the cousin of 
the Saracinesca, and rich into the bargain. Amidst all 
the gossip and small talk no one, however, was found 
who possessed enough imagination to foretell what in 
reality was very imminent, namely, that the Marchese 
might turn out to be the prince. 

The last person to suspect such a revelation was San 
Giacinto himself. He had indeed at one time entertained 
some hopes of pushing forward a claim which was cer- 
tainly founded upon justice if not upon good law; but since 
Montevarchi had kept the documents relating to the case 
for many days, and had then returned them without 
mentioning the subject to his future son-in-law, the lat- 
ter had thought it wiser to let the matter rest for the 
present, shrewdly suspecting that such a man as Monte- 
varchi would not readily let such an opportunity of 
enriching his own daughter slip through his fingers. It 
has been already seen that Montevarchi purposely pre- 
vented San Giacinto from seeing the papers in order that 
he might be in reality quite innocent of any complicity 
in the matter when the proceedings were instituted, a 
point very important for the success of the suit. 

Half an hour afterwards San Giacinto was closeted 
with the old prince in the latter’s study, which looked 
more than usually dismal by contrast with the brilliant 
assemblage in the drawing-rooms. 

^^Now that we are alone, my dear son,” began Monte- 
varchi, who for a wonder had not changed his coat since 
the ceremony, “ now that you are really my son, I have 
an important communication to make.” 

San Giacinto sat down and any one might have seen 
from the expression of his square jaw and determined 
mouth that he was prepared for battle. He did not trust 
his father-in-law in the least, and would not have been 
surprised if he had made an attempt to get ba,ck the 
money he had paid into the lawyer’s hands as Elavia’ s 
dowry. But San Giacinto had taken all precautions and 


254 


sant’ ilario. 


knew very well that he could not be cheated. Monte - 
varchi continued in a bland voice. 

“I have kept the matter as a surprise for you,” he 
said. You have of course been very busy during these 
last weeks in making your preparations for the solemn 
ceremony at which we have just assisted. It was there- 
fore impossible for you to attend to the multifarious 
details which it has been my care, my privilege, to sift 
and examine. For it is a privilege we should value 
highly to labour for those we love, for those with whom 
we share our dearest affections. I am now about to com- 
municate to you an affair of the highest importance, 
which, when brought to a successful termination will 
exercise a tremendous influence over all your life. Let* 
me say beforehand, however, and lest you should suspect 
me of any unworthy motives, that I expect no thanks, 
nor any share in the immense triumph in store for you. 
Do not be surprised if I use somewhat strong language 
on such an occasion. I have examined everything, pre- 
served everything, taken the best legal advice, and con- 
sulted those without whose spiritual counsel I enter upon 
no weighty undertaking. My dear son, you, and none 
other, are the real and rightful Prince Saracinesca.” 

The climax to the long preamble was so unexpected 
that San Giacinto uttered a loud exclamation of surprise. 

^^Do not be amazed at what I have told you,” said 
Montevarchi. ‘‘ The documents upon which the claims 
of the Saracinesca rest were drawn up by a wise man. 
Although he had not at that time any intention of marry- 
ing, he was aware that with heaven all things are possi- 
ble, and introduced a clause to the effect that if he should 
marry and leave heirs direct of his body, the whole deed 
was to be null, void and ineffectual. I do not know 
enough of your family history to understand why neither 
he nor his son nor his grandson ever made any attempt 
to recover their birthright, but I know enough of law to 
affirm that the clause is still good. It is identical ” — 
the prince smiled pleasantly — ‘‘it is identical in the 
original and in the copy preserved in the Chancery 
archives. In my opinion you have only to present the 
two documents before a competent court, in order to 
obtain a unanimous verdict in your favour.” 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


255 


San Giacinto looked hard from under his overhanging 
brows at the old man’s keen face. Then, suddenly, he 
stuck his heavy fist into the palm of his left hand, and 
rose from his chair, a gleam of savage triumph in his 
eyes. For some time he paced the room in silence. 

“I wish Giovanni no ill, nor his father either,” he 
said at last. 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” exclaimed Montevarchi, crossing 
himself. ‘‘And besides, as the property is all yours, 
that would be of no use.” 

San Giacinto stared a minute, and then his deep voice 
rang out in a hearty laugh. He had an intimate convic- 
tion that his devout father-in-law was quite capable, not 
only of wishing evil to his neighbour, but of putting his 
wishes into execution if his interests could be advanced 
thereby. 

^“Ho,” he said, when his merriment had subsided, “I 
wish them no evil. But, after all, they must know 
what is contained in the papers they have in their pos- 
session, and they must know that I am the prince, and 
that they have kept me out of my inheritance. I will 
go and tell them so. Since there is no doubt about the 
case, I do not see why I should wait.” 

“ISTor I,” answered Montevarchi, with the air of a 
man who has done his part and expects others to finish 
what ne has begun. 

“It is fortunate that we have decided to go to Frascati 
instead of making a journey to the end of Europe. Not 
but that, as I have never seen Paris, I would have liked 
the trip well enough.” 

“You will find Paris pleasanter when you are Prince 
Saracinesca.” 

“That is true,” replied San Giacinto, thoughtfully. 
There was the deep light of anticipated triumph in his 
eyes. “Will you see that the proper preliminary steps 
are taken?” he asked presently. 

“ I will engage lawyers for you. But you will have to 
do the rest yourself. The lawyers might go out and talk 
it over with you in Frascati. After all, you are a young 
man of good sense, and will not have any sentiment about 
being alone with your wife.” 

“ For the matter of that, I anticipate much pleasure in 


256 


sant’ ilario. 


the society of my wife, but when there is so much meat 
boiling, somebody must watch the pot, as we used to say 
in Naples. I am a practical man, you know.” 

‘‘ Ah, that is a great quality, one of the very greatest ! 
If I had spent my life in a perpetual honeymoon with the 
princess, Casa Montevarchi would not be what it is, my 
son. I have always given my best attention to the affairs 
of my household, and I expect that you will continue 
the tradition.” 

“Never fear! If, by continuing the tradition, you 
mean that I should get what is mine, I will not disap- 
point you. Can you tell me when the case can be tried, 
and in what court it will be heard?” 

“With my influence,” replied Montevarchi, “the case 
may be put through at once. A month will suffice for 
the preliminaries, a day for the hearing. Everything is 
settled at once by the exhibition of the documents which 
provide for you in the most explicit terms. You can come 
in from the country and see them for yourself if you 
please. But I consider that quite unnecessary. The 
lawyers Avill settle everything.” 

“ Pardon my curiosity, but I would like to know why 
you thought it best not to tell me anything of the matter 
until now.” 

“ My dear son, you were so busy with the preparations 
for your marriage, and the questions involved seemed at 
first so doubtful that I thought it best not to trouble you 
with them. Then, when I knew the whole truth the time 
was so near that I preferred to give you the information 
as a sort of wedding present.” 

“A magnificent one indeed, for which I cannot find 
words to express my gratitude.” 

“No, no! Do not talk of gratitude. I feel that I am 
fulfilling a sacred duty in restoring to the fatherless liis 
birthright. It is an act of divine justice for the execu- 
tion of which I have been chosen as the humble instru- 
ment. Do your duty by my dear daughter, and render 
your gratitude to heaven — qum sunt Ccesaris, Ccesari, et 
quae sunt Dei, Deo! Would that we could all live by 
that rule ! ” 

“ To Saracinesca what is his, and to San Giacinto that 
which belongs to him — that is what you mean? ” 


sant’ ilakio. 


257 


‘‘Yes, my good son. I am glad to see that you under- 
stand Latin. It does you credit that amidst the misfor- 
tunes of your early life you should have so improved 
yourself as to possess the education necessary to the high 
rank you are about to assume. I tell you frankly that, in 
spite of your personal qualities, in .spite of the great 
name and possessions which will soon be yours, if I had 
not distinguished in you that refinement and instruction 
without which no gentleman is worthy of the name, I 
would not have bestowed upon you the hand of that sweet 
creature whom I have cherished as a flower in the house 
of my old age.’’ 

San Giacinto had made a study of old Montevarchi 
during a month past, and was not in the least deceived 
by his rounded periods and well expressed moral senti- 
ments. But he smiled and bowed, enjoying the idea of 
attributing such flattery to himself in proportion as he 
felt that he was unworthy of it. He had indeed done 
his best to acquire a certain amount of instruction, as 
his father-in-law called it, and his tastes were certainly 
not so coarse as might have been expected, but he was 
too strong a man to be easily deceived concerning his 
own powers, and he knew well enough that he owed his 
success to his fortune. He saw, too, that Montevarchi, 
in giving him Flavia, had foreseen the possibility of his 
claiming the rights of his cousins, and if he had not been 
thoroughly satisfied with his choice he would have now 
felt that he had been deceived. He had no regrets, how- 
ever, for he felt that even had he already enjoyed the 
titles and wealth he was so soon to claim, he would 
nevertheless have chosen Flavia for his wife. Of all the 
young girls he had seen in Rome she was the only one 
who really attracted him; a fact due, perhaps, to her 
being more natural than the rest, or at least more like 
what he thought a woman should naturally be. His 
rough nature would not have harmonised with Faustina’s 
character ; still less could he have understood and appre- 
ciated a woman like Corona, who was indeed almost 
beyond the comprehension of Giovanni, her own husband. 
San Giacinto was almost a savage, compared with the 
young men of the class to which he now belonged, and 
there was something wild and half-tamed in Flavia Mon- 


258 


sant’ ilario. 


tevarchi which had fascinated him from the first, and 
held him by that side of his temperament by which alone 
savages are governed. 

Had the bringing of the suit been somewhat hastened 
it is not impossible that San Giacinto and his wife might 
have driven up to the ancient towers of Saracinesca on 
that Saturday afternoon, as Giovanni and Corona had 
done on their wedding day two years and a half earlier. 
As it was, they were to go out to Frascati to spend a 
week in Montevarchi’s villa, as the prince and princess 
and all their married children had done before them. 

“ Eh ! what a satisfaction ! exclaimed Flavia, with a 
sigh of relief as the carriage rolled out of the deep arch- 
way under the palace. Then she laughed a little and 
looked up at her husband out of the corners of her bright 
black eyes, after which she produced a very pretty silver 
scent-bottle which her mother had put into her hand as 
a parting gift. She looked at it, turned it round, opened 
it and at last smelled the contents. 

“Ugh!’^ she cried, shutting it up quickly and making 
a wry face. ‘‘It is full of salts — horrible ! I thought it 
was something good to smell ! Hid she think I was going 
to faint on the way? 

“You do not look like fainting,” remarked San Gia- 
cinto, who looked gigantic in a wide fur pelisse. He put 
out his great hand, which closed with a sort of rough 
tenderness over hers, completely hiding it as well as the 
smelling-bottle she held. “ So it is a satisfaction, is it? ” 
he asked, with a gleam of pleasure in his deep-set eyes. 

“If you had been educated under the supervision of 
the ecceUentissima casa Montevarchi, you would under- 
stand what a blessed institution marriage is! You — 
what shall I call you — your name is Giovanni, is it 
not? ” 

“Yes — Giovanni. Ho you like the name? ” 

“No — it reminds me of the head of John the Baptist. 
I will call you — let me see — Nino. Yes — that sounds 
so small, and you are so immensely big. You are Nino, 
in future. I am glad you are big. I do not like little 
men.” She nestled close to the giant, with a laugh that 
pleased him. 

San Giacinto suddenly found that he was very much 


sant’ ilaeio. 


259 


more in love than he had supposed. His life had been 
very full of contrasts, but this was the greatest which 
had yet presented itself. He remembered a bright sum- 
mer’s morning a few years earlier, when he had walked 
back from the church in Aquila with Felice Baldi by his 
side. Poor Felice! She had worn a very pretty black 
silk frock with a fine gold chain around her neck, and a 
veil upon her head, for she was not of the class that 
wear hats,” as they say in Pome. But she had forced 
her stout hands into gloves, and Giovanni the innkeeper 
had been somewhat proud of her ladylike appearance. 
Her face was very red and there were tears of pleasure 
and timidity in her eyes, which he remembered very well. 
It was strange that she, too, should have been proud of 
her husband’s size and strength. Perhaps all women 
were very much alike. How well he remembered the 
wedding collation, the little yellow cakes with a drop of 
hard pink sugar in the middle of each, the bottles of 
sweet cordial of various flavours, cinnamon, clove, anise- 
seed and the like, the bright red japanned tray, and the 
cheaply gaudy plates whereon were painted all manner 
of impossible flowers. 

Felice was dead, buried in the campo santo of Aquila, 
with its whitewashed walls of enclosure and its appalling 
monuments and mortuary emblems. Poor Felice ! She 
had been a good wife, and he had been a good husband 
to her. She was such a simple creature that he could 
almost fancy her spirit shedding tears of satisfied pride at 
seeing her Giovanni married to a princess, rich and 
about to be metamorphosed into a prince himself. She 
had known that he was a Marchese of a great family, and 
had often begged him to let her be called the Signora 
Marchesa. But he had always told her that for people in 
their position it was absurd. They were not poor for 
their station ; indeed, they were among the wealthiest of 
their class in Aquila. He had promised to assert his 
title when they should be rich enough, but poor Felice 
had died too soon. Then had come that great day when 
Giovanni had won in the lottery — Giovanni who had 
never played before and had all his life called it a waste 
of money and a public robbery. But, playing once, he 
had played high, and all his numbers had appeared on 


260 


sakt’ ilario. 


the following Saturday. Two hundred thousand francs 
in a day ! Such luck only falls to the lot of men who are 
born under destiny. Giovanni had long known what he 
should do if he only possessed the capital. The winnings 
were paid in cash, and in a fortnight he had taken up a 
government contract in the province of Aquila. Then 
came another and another. Everything turned to gold 
in his hands, and in two years he was a rich man. 

Alone in the world, with his two little boys, and pos- 
sessed of considerable wealth, the longing had come over 
him to take the position to which he had a legitimate 
right, a position which, he supposed, would not interfere 
with his increasing his fortune if he wished to do so. He 
had left the children under the supervision of old Don 
Paolo, the curate, and had come to Rome, where he had 
lodged in an obscure hotel until he had fitted himself to 
appear before his cousins as a gentleman. His grave 
temper, indomitable energy, and natural astuteness had 
done the rest, and fortune had crowned all his efforts. 
The old blood of the Saracinesca had grown somewhat 
coarse by the admixture of a stream very far from blue ; 
but if it had lost in some respects it had gained in others, 
and the type was not wholly low. The broad-shoul- 
dered, dark-complexioned giant was not altogether un- 
worthy of the ancient name, and he knew it as his wife 
nestled to his side. He loved the wild element in her, 
but most of all he loved the thoroughbred stamp of her 
face, the delicacy of her small hands, the aristocratic ring 
of her laughter, for these all told him that, after three 
generations of obscurity he had risen again to the level 
whence his fathers had fallen. 

The change in his life became very clear to him, as all 
these things passed quickly through his mind; and with 
the consciousness of vivid contrast came the certainty 
that he loved Flavia far better than he had believed pos- 
sible. 

‘‘ And what shall I call you? he asked, rather bluntly. 
He did not quite know whether it would be wise to use 
any term of endearment or not. Indeed, this was the 
weak point in his experience, but he supplemented the 
deficiency by a rough tenderness which was far from 
disagreeable to Elavia. 


SANT’ ILATIIO. 


261 


‘^Anything you like, dear,” she answered. San Gia- 
cinto felt the blood rush to his head with pleasure as 
lie heard the epithet. 

‘‘Anything?” he asked, with a very unwonted tremour 
in his voice. 

“ Anything — provided you will love me, ” she replied. 
He thought he had never seen such wicked, fascinating 
eyes. He drew her face to his and looked into them a 
moment, his own blazing suddenly with a passion wholly 
new to him. 

“ I will not call you anything — instead of calling you, 
I will kiss you — so — is it not better than any name?” 

A deep blush spread over Flavia’s face and then sub- 
sided suddenly, leaving her very pale. For a long time 
neither spoke again. 

“Did your father tell you the news before we left?” 
asked San Giacinto at last, when they were rolling over 
the Campagna along the Via Latina. 

“ No — what?” 

“It is somewhat remarkable news. If you are afraid 
of fainting, ” he added, with rough humour, “ hold your 
bottle of salts ready.” 

Flavia looked up uneasily, wondering whether there 
were anything wrong about San Giacinto. She knew 
very well that her father had been glad to get rid of her. 

“I am not San Giacinto after all,” he said quietly. 
Flavia started and drew back. 

“ Who are you then? ” she asked quickly. 

“I am Prince Saracinesca, and you are the princess.” 
He spoke very calmly, and watched her face to see the 
effect of the news. 

“ I wish you were ! ” she exclaimed nervously. She 
wondered whether he was going mad. 

“ There seems to be no doubt about it, ” he answered, 
“ your father informed me of the fact as a wedding pres- 
ent. He has examined all the papers and will send the 
lawyers out to Frascati to prepare the case with me.” 

He told her the whole story in detail. As he pro- 
ceeded, a singular expression came into Flavia’s face, 
and when he had finished she broke out into voluble ex- 
pressions of joy. 

“ I always knew that I was born to be a princess — I 


262 


sant' ilario. 


mean a real one! How could I be anything else? Oh! 
I am so happy, and you are such a darling to be a prince ! 
And to think that if papa had not discovered the papers, 
those horrid Sant’ Ilario people would have had every- 
thing. Princess Saracinesca! Eh, but how it sounds! 
Almost as good as Orsini, and much nicer with you, you 
great big, splendid lion! Why did they not call you 
Leone? It is too good to be true! And I always hated 
Corona, ever since I Avas a little girl and she was the 
Astrardente, because she used to say I did not behave 
well and that Faustina was much prettier — I heard her 
say so when I was behind the curtains. AVhy did you 
not find it out ever so long ago? Think what a wedding 
we should have had, just like Sant’ Ilario’ s 1 But it was 
very fine after all, and of course there is nothing to com- 
plain of. Evviva 1 Evviva I Do give me one of those 
cigarettes — I never smoked in my life, and I am so 
happy that I know it will not hurt me ! ” 

San Giacinto had his case in his hand, and laughed as 
he presented it to her. Quiet as he was in his manner 
he was far the happier of the two, as he was far more 
capable of profound feeling than the wild girl who was 
noAv his wife. He was glad, too, to see that she was so 
thoroughly delighted, for he knew well enough that even 
after he had gained the suit he would need the support 
of an ambitious woman to strengthen his position. He 
did not believe that the Saracinesca would submit tamely 
to such a tremendous shock of fortune, and he foresaw 
that their resentment would probably be shared by a great 
number of their friends. 

Flavia looked prettier than ever as she put the bit of 
rolled paper between her red lips and puffed aAvay Avith 
an energy altogether unnecessary. He would not have 
believed that, being already so brilliant and good to see, 
a piece of unexpected good ncAvs could have lent her ex- 
pression so much more brightness. She Avas positively 
radiant, as she looked from his eyes at her little ciga- 
rette, and then, looking back to him again, laughed and 
snapped her small gloved fingers. 

‘‘Do you know,” she said presently, with a glance that 
completed the conquest of San Giacinto’s heart, “I 
thought I should be dreadfully shy Avith you — at first — 


sant’ ilario. 


263 


and I am not in the least ! I confess, at the very moment 
when you were putting the ring on my finger I was won- 
dering what we should talk about during the drive.” 

“You did not think we should have such an agreeable 
subject of conversation, did you?” 

“No — and it is such a pretty ring ! I always wanted 
a band of diamonds — plain gold is so common. Did you 
think of it yourself or did some one else suggest the 
' idea?” 

“ Castellani said it was old-fashioned, ” answered San 
Giacinto, “but I preferred it.” 

“Would you have liked one, too?” 

“No. It would be ridiculous for a man.” 

“You have very good taste,” remarked Flavia, eyeing 
him critically. “Where did you get it? You used to 
keep a hotel in Aquila, did you not?” 

San Giacinto had long been prepared for the question 
and did not wince nor show the slightest embarrassment. 
He smiled calmly as he answered her. 

“You would hardly have called it a hotel, it was a 
country inn. I daresay I shall manage Saracinesca all 
the better for having kept a hostelry.” 

“ Of course. Oh, I have such a delightful idea ! Let us 
go to Aquila and keep the hotel together. It would be 
such fun ! You could say you had married a little shop- 
keeper’s daughter in Nome, you know. Just for a month, 
Nino — do let us do it ! It would be such a change after 
society, and then we would go back for the Carnival. 
Oh, do ! ” 

“ But you forget the lawsuit ” 

“ That is true. Besides, it will be just as much of a 
change to be Princess Saracinesca. But we can do it 
another time. I would like so much to go about in an 
apron with a red cotton handkerchief on my head and see 
all the queer people! When are the lawyers coming?” 

“During the week, I suppose.” 

“There will be a fight,” said Flavia, her face growing 
more grave. “ What will Sant’ Ilario and his father say 
and do? I cannot believe that it will all go so smoothly 
as you think. They do not look like people who would 
give up easily what they have had so long. I suppose 
they will be quite ruined.” 


264 


sant’ ilario. 


do not know. Corona is rich in her own right, 
and Sant’ Ilario has his mother’s fortune. Of course, 
they will be poor compared with their present wealth. 

T am sorry for them ” 

“Sorry?” Flavia looked at her husband in some 
astonishment. “It is their own fault. Why should 
you be sorry?” 

“It is not exactly their fault. I could hardly have< 
expected them to come to me and inform me that a mis- 
take had been made in the last century, and that all they 
possessed was mine.” ' 

“ All they possessed ! ” echoed Flavia, thoughtfully. 

“ What a wonderful idea it is ! ” 

“Very wonderful,” assented San Giacinto, who was 
thinking once more of his former poverty. 

The carriage rolled on and both were silent for some 
time, absorbed in dreaming of the greatness which was 
before them in the near future, San Giacinto enumerating 
in his mind the titles and estates which were soon to be 
his, while Flavia imagined herself in Corona’s place in 
Kome, grown suddenly to be a central figure in society, 
leading and organising the brilliant amusements of her 
world, and above all, rejoicing in that lavish use of 
abundant money which had always seemed to her the 
most desirable of all enjoyments. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Faustina Montevarchi was delighted when her sister 
was at last married and out of the house. The two had 
always been very good friends, but Faustina felt that 
she had an enemy in San Giacinto and was relieved when 
he was gone. She had no especial reason for her suspi- 
cions, since he treated her with the same quiet and ami- 
cable politeness which he showed to the rest of the 
household ; but her perceptions were extraordinarily true 
and keen, and she had noticed that he watched her 
whenever Gouache was in the room, in a way that made 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


265 


her very uncomfortable. Moreover, he had succeeded of 
late in making Flavia accompany her to early mass on 
Sunday mornings on pretence of his wishing to see 
Flavia without the inevitable supervision of the old 
princess. The plan was ingenious; for Faustina, instead 
of meeting Gouache, was thus obliged to play chaperon 
while her sister and San Giacinto talked to their hearts’ 
content. He was a discreet man, however, and Flavia 
was ignorant of the fact that Faustina and Anastase had 
sometimes met in the same way, and would have met 
frequently had they not been prevented. The young 
girl was clever enough to see why San Giacinto acted as 
he did; she understood that he was an ambitious man, 
and that, as he was about to ally himself with her family, 
he would naturally disapprove of her attachment to 
Gouache. How that he was gone, she wondered whether 
he had devised any steps which would take effect after 
his departure. 

Faustina was quite as much in love as Gouache him- 
self, and spent much time in calculating the chances of 
a favourable issue from the situation in which she found 
herself. Life without Anastase was impossible, but the 
probabilities of her becoming his wife in the ordinary 
course of events were very few, as far as she was able to 
judge, and she had moments of extreme depression, 
during which she despaired of everything. The love of a 
very young girl may in itself be both strong and enduring, 
but it generally has the effect of making her prone to 
extremes of hope and fear, uncertain of herself, vacillat- 
ing in her ideas, and unsteady in the pursuit of the 
smaller ends of life. Throw two equal weights into the 
scales of a perfectly adjusted balance, the arm will swing 
and move erratically many times before it returns to its 
normal position, although there is a potential equilibrium 
in the machine which will shortly assert itself in abso- 
lute tranquillity. 

Love in ..a very young person is rarely interesting, 
unless'Tt is attehcled hy heroic or tragic circumstances. 
Human life is very like the game of chess, of which the 
openings are so limited in number that a practised player 
knows them all by heart, whereas the subsequent moves 
are susceptible of infinite variation. Almost all young 


266 


sant’ ilario. 


people pass through the early stages of existence by some 
known gambit, which has always a definite influence upon 
their later lives, but never determines the latter entirely. 
The game is played between humanity on the one side 
and the unforeseen on the other; but that which can 
really not be foretold in some measure rarely presents 
itself until thfe first effects of love have been felt, a 
period which, to continue the simile, may be compared 
in chess to the operation of castling. Then comes the 
first crisis, and the merest tyro knows how much may 
depend upon whether he castles on the king’s side or on 
the queen’s. 

Noav the nature of Faustina’s first love was such as to 
make it probable that it would end in some uncommon 
way. There was something fatal in the suddenness Avith 
Avhich her affection had groAvn and had upset the balance 
of her judgment. It is safe to say that not one young 
girl in a million would have behaved as she had done on 
the night of the insurrection in Home; not one in a 
hundred thousand would, in her position, have fallen in 
love with Gouache. 

The position of the professional artist and of the 
professional man of letters in modern European society is 
ill defined. As a man who has been brought up in a 
palace Avould undoubtedly betray his breeding sooner or 
later if transported to live amongst a gang of thieves, 
so a man who has groAvn to years of discretion in the 
atmosphere of studios or in the queer company from 
Avhich most literary men have sprung, will inevitably, at 
one time or another, offend the susceptibilities of that 
portion of humanity which calls itself society. It is 
impossible that it should be otherwise. Among a set of 
people whose profession it is to do ahvays, and in all 
things, precisely what their neighbours do, the man who 
makes his living by doing what other people cannot do, 
must always be a marked figure. Look at modern soci- 
ety. It cannot toil nor spin; it can hardly put together 
ten words in a grammatical sequence. But it can clothe 
itself. The man of letters can both toil and write good 
English, but his taste in tailoring frequently leaves much 
to be desired. If he Avould put himself in the hands of 
Poole, and hold his tongue, he might almost pass for a 


sant’ ilario. 


267 


member of society. But he must needs talk, and his 
speech bewrayeth him for a Galilean. There are wits in 
society, both many and keen, who can say something 
original, cutting and neatly turned, upon almost any 
subject, with an easy superiority which makes the hair 
of the learned man stand erect upon his head. The chief 
characteristic of him who lives by his brains is, that he 
s is not only able to talk consecutively upon some subject, 
but that he actually does so, which, in society, is ac- 
counted a monstrous crime against manners. Let him 
write what he wants to say, and print it; society will 
either not understand him at all, or will read his works 
with a dictionary in the secrecy of its own chamber. 
But if he will hold his tongue in public, society will give 
him a cup of tea and treat him almost like a human 
being for the sake of being said to patronise letters. Any 
one who likes society’s tea may drink his fill of it in 
consideration of wearing a good coat and keeping his 
wits to himself, but he will not succeed in marrying an;y 
of society’s sisters, cousins or aunts without a severe 
struggle. 

Anastase Gouache did not quite understand this. He 
sometimes found himself amidst a group of people who 
were freely discussing some person unknown to him. On 
such occasions he held his peace, innocently supposing 
that his ignorance was without any importance what- 
soever, among a set of men and women with whom not to 
know every detail concerning every one else is to be 
little better than an outcast. 

“Now do tell me all about the Snooks and Montmor- 
ency divorce,” says Lady Smyth-Tompkins with a sweetly 
engaging smile, as she holds out her hand. 

“ I did not know there was such a case — I don’t know 
the people,” you answer. 

“Oh! I thought, of course, you knew all about it,” 
Lady Smyth-Tompkins replies, and her features turn to 
stone as she realises that you do not know everybody, 
and leaves you to your own reflections. 

O Thackeray, snobissme maxime I How well you knew 
them! 

There are no snobs among the Latin races, but there is 
a worse animal, the sycophant, descended directly from 


268 


sant’ ilario. 


the dinner-tables of ancient Eome. In old-fashioned 
houses there are often several of them, headed invariably 
by the ‘‘giornale ainbulante, ” the walking newspaper, 
whose business it is to pick up items of news during the 
day in order to detail them to the family in the evening. 
There is a certain old princess who sits every evening 
with her needlework at the head of a long table in the 
dismal drawing-room of a gigantic palace. On each side 
of the board are seated the old parasites, the family 
doctor, the family chaplain, the family lawyer, the 
family librarian, the peripatetic news-sheet and the rest. 

“I have been out to-day,” says her excellency. 

“Oh! Ah! Dear me! In this weather! Hear what 
the princess says! The princess has been out!” The 
chorus comes up the table, all the answers reaching her 
ears at once. 

“And I saw, as I drove by, the new monument! 
What a ridiculous thing it is.” 

“Ho! ho! ho! Hah! hah! hah! Dear me! What a 
monument! What line taste the princess has! Hear 
what the princess thinks of the monument! ” 

“ If you will believe it, the bronze horse has a crooked 
leg.” 

“He! he! he! Hi! hi! hi! Dear me! A crooked 
leg ! How the princess understands horses ! The prin- 
cess saw that he had a crooked leg ! ” 

And so on, for a couple of hours, in the cold, dimly - 
lighted room until her excellency has had enough of it 
and rises to go to bed, when the parasites all scuttle 
away and quarrel with each other in the street as they 
walk home. Night after night, to decades of years, the 
old lady recounts the little journal of her day to the 
admiring listeners, whose chorus of approval is performed 
daily with the same unvarying regularity. The times 
are changing now; the prince is not so easily amused, 
and the sycophant has accordingly acquired the art of 
amusing, but there still survive some wonderful monu- 
ments of the old school. 

Anastase Gouache was a man of great talent and of 
rising fame, but like other men of his stamp he preferred 
to believe that he was received on a friendly footing for 
his own sake rather than on account of his reputation. 


sant’ ilakio. 


269 


In liis own eyes, lie was, as a man, as good as those with 
whom he associated, and had as much right to make love 
to Faustina Monte varchi as the young Frangipani, for 
whom her father destined her. Faustina, on her part, 
was too young to appreciate the real strength of the preju- 
dices by which she was surrounded. She could not 
understand that, although the man she loved was a 
gentleman, young, good-looking, successful, and not 
without prospects of acquiring a fortune, he was yet 
wholly ineligible as a husband. Had she seen this ever 
so clearly it might have made but little difference in her- 
feelings; but she did not see it, and the disparaging 
remarks about Anastase, which she occasionally heard in 
her own family, seemed to her utterly unjust as well as 
quite unfounded. The result was that the two young 
peojile were preparing for themselves one of those terri- 
ble disappointments of which the consequences are some- 
times felt during a score of years. Both, however, were 
too much in love to bear suspense very long without doing 
something to precipitate the course of events, and when- 
ever they had the chance they talked the matter over and 
built wonderful castles in the air. 

About a fortnight after the marriage of San Giacinto 
they were seated together in a room full of people, late 
in the afternoon. They had been talking for some time 
upon indifferent subjects. When two persons meet who 
are very much in love with each other, and waste their 
time in discussing topics of little importance, it may be 
safely predicted that something unusual is about to occur. 

‘‘I cannot endure this suspense any longer,’’ said 
Gouache at last. 

“Hor I,” answered Faustina. 

^‘It is of no use to wait any more. Either your father 
will consent or he will not. I will ask him and know 
the worst.” 

^^And if it is the worst — what then?” The young 
girl turned her eyes towards Anastase with a frightened 
look. 

‘‘Then we must manage without his consent.” 

“How is that possible?” 

“It must be possible,” replied Gouache. “ If you love 
me it shall be possible. It is only a question of a little 


270 


sant’ ilario. 


courage and goodwill. But, after all, your father may 
consent. Why should he not ? ” 

Because ” she hesitated a little. 

^‘Because I am not a Roman prince, you mean.” 
Anastase glanced quickly at her. 

“No. He wants me to marry Frangipani.” 

“ AVhy did you never tell me that? ” 

“I did not know it when we last met. My mother 
told me of it last night.” 

“Is the match settled?” asked Gouache. He was 
very pale. 

“I think it has been spoken of,” answered Faustina 
in a low voice. She shivered a little and pressed her 
hands together. There was a short silence, during which 
Anastase did not take his eyes from her, while she looked 
down, avoiding his look. 

“Then there is no time to be lost,” said Gouache at 
last. “I will go to your father to-morrow morning.” 

“Oh — doiiT, don’t!” cried Faustina, suddenly, with 
an expression of intense anxiety. 

“Why not? ” The artist seemed very much surprised. 

“You do not know him I You do not know what he 
will say to you! You will be angry and lose your 
temper — he will be cruel and will insult you, and you 
will resent it — then I shall never see you again. You 
do not know ” 

“This is something new,” said Gouache. “How can 
you be sure that he will receive me so badly? Have 
your people talked about me? After all, I am an honest 
man, and though I live by my profession I am not poor. 
It is true, I am not such a match for you as Frangipani. 
Tell me, do they abuse me at your house?” 

“No — what can they say, except that you are an 
artist? That is not abuse, nor calumny.” 

“ It depends upon how it is said. I suppose it is San 
Giacinto who says it.” Gouache’s face darkened. 

“ San Giacinto has guessed the truth, ” answered Faus- 
tina, shaking her head. “ He knows that we love each 
other, and just now he is very powerful with my father. 
It will be worse if he wins the suit and is Prince Sara- 
cinesca.” 

“Then that is another reason for acting at once. 


sant’ ilario. 


271 


Faustina — you followed me once — will you not go with 
me, away, out of this cursed city? I will ask for you 
first. I will behave honourably. But if he will not 
consent, what is there left for us to do? Can we live 
apart? Can you marry Frangipani? Have not many 
people done before what we think of doing? Is it wrong? 
lleaven knows, I make no pretence to sanctity. But I 
would not have you do anything — what shall I say? 
Anything against your conscience.’’ There was a shade 
of bitterness in the laugh that accompanied the last 
words. 

You do not know what things he will say,” repeated 
Faustina, in despairing tones. 

^‘This is absurd,” said Gouache. “1 can bear any- 
thing he can say well enough. He is an old man and I 
am a young one, and have no intention of taking offence. 
He may say what he pleases, call me a villain, a brigand 
— that is your favourite Italian expression — a thief, a 
liar, anything he pleases. I will not be angry. There 
shall be no violence. But I cannot endure this state of 
things any longer. I must try my luck.” 

^‘Wait a little longer,” answered Faustina, in an im- 
ploring tone. Wait until the suit is decided.” 

In order to let San Giacinto get even more influence 
than he has now? It would be a mistake — you almost 
said so yourself a moment ago. Besides, the suit may 
for years.” 

~ ^Ht will not last a fortnight.” 

“ Poor Sant’ Ilario ! ” exclaimed Gouache. “ Does 
everybody know about it? ” 

suppose so. But nobody speaks of it. We all feel 
dreadfully about it, except my father and San Giacinto 
and Flavia.” 

If he is in a good humour this is the very time to go 
to him.” 

‘‘Please, please dp -^ot insist!’^ Faustina was evi- 
dently in earnest. With the instinct of a very 

yo^ng woman, she clung to the half happiness of the 
present which was so much greater than anything she 
had known before in her life. But Gouache would not 
be satisiie". 

I/inust know the worst,” he said again, as they parted. 


272 


sant’ ilario. 


But this is so much better than the worst, answered 
Faustina, sadly. 

“Who risks nothing, wins nothing,’’ retorted the young 
man with a bright smile. 

In spite of his hopefulness, however, he had received 
a severe shock on hearing the news of the intended match 
with young Frangipani. He had certainly never ex- 
pected to find himself the rival of such a suitor, and his 
sense of possibility, if man may be said to possess such 
a faculty, was staggered by the idea. He suddenly 
awakened to a true understanding of his position in 
Eoman society, and when he contemplated his discovery 
in all its bearings, his nerve almost forsook him. When 
he remembered his childhood, his youth, and the cir- 
cumstances in which he had lived up to a recent time, he 
found it hard to realise that he was trying to marry such 
a girl, in spite of her family and in opposition to such a 
man as was now brought forward as a match for her. It 
was not in his nature, however, to be discouraged in the 
face of difficulties. He was like a brave man who has 
received a stunning blow, but who continues ^to light 
until he has gradually regained his position. Gouache 
could no more have relinquished Faustina than he could 
have abandoned a half -finished picture in which he be- 
lieved, any more than he had given up the attempt to 
break away the stones at the Vigna Santucci after he had 
received the bullet in his shoulder. He had acquired his 
position in life by indomitable perseverance and hope- 
fulness, and those qualities would not now fail him, in one 
of the most critical situations through which he had ever 
passed. In spite of Faustina’s warning and, to some 
extent, in spite of his own better judgment, he deter- 
mined to face the old prince at once and to ask him 
boldly for his daughter. 

He had spoken cohfidg^ly to Faustina of being mar- 
ried against the will of her''fathei;;ibnt when he thought 
over this' alternative he recollected^'fe^^ hs fed almost 
completely forgotten in considering his matrimoma'i 
jects. He was a soldier and had enlisted in the Zouaves 
for a term of years. It was true that by using Hie in- 
fluence he possessed he might hope tu uc x..iea.sed from 
his engagement, but such a course was most repmgnant 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


273 


to him. Before Mentana it would have been wholly im- 
possible, for it would have seemed cowardly. Now that 
he had distinguished himself and had been wounded in 
the cause, the thing might be done without dishonour, 
but it would involve a species of self-abasement to which 
he was not prepared to submit. On the other hand, to 
wait until his term of service should have expired was 
to risk losing Faustina altogether. He knew that she 
loved him, but he was experienced enough to know that 
a young girl is not always able to bear the pressure exer- 
cised upon her when marriage is concerned. In Borne, 
and especially at that time, it was in the power of 
parents to use the most despotic means for subduing the 
will of their children. There was even a law by which 
a disobedient son or daughter could be imprisoned for a 
considerable length of time, provided that the father 
could prove that his child had rebelled against his just 
will. Though Gouache was not aAvare of this, the fact 
that a similar institution existed in his own country made 
him suspect that it was to be found in Borne also. Sup- 
posing that Montevarchi refused to accept him for a son- 
in-law, and that Faustina, on the other hand, refused to 
marry young Frangipani, it was only too probable that 
she might be locked up — in a luxuriously furnished cell 
of course — to reflect upon the error of her ways. It was 
by no means certain that in the face of such humiliation 
and suffering Faustina would continue her resistance; 
indeed, she could hardly be blamed if she yielded in the 
eiid. Gouache believed in the sincerity of her love be- 
cause the case was his own ; had he heard of it in the life 
of another man he Avould have laughed at the idea that 
a girl of eighteen could be capable of a serious passion. 

It is not necessary, however, to enter into an analysis 
of the motives and feelings of either Faustina or Anas- 
tase. Their connection with the history of the Sara- 
cinesca arose from what they did, and not from the 
thoughts which prompted their actions. It is sufficient 
to say that Gouache conceived the mad idea of asking 
Montevarchi’ s consent to his marriage and to explain the 
immediate consequences of the step he took. 

Matters were rapidly approaching a climax. San Gia- 
cinto had seen the lawyers at Frascati, and he had brought 

T 


274 


sant’ ilakio. 


his wife back to Eome very soon in order to be on the 
spot while the case was being prepared. The men of the 
law declared that the matter was a very simple one and 
that no court could withhold its decision a single day 
after seeing the documents which constituted the claim. 
The only point about which any argument could arise 
related to the identity of San Giacinto himself, and no 
difficulty was found in establishing substantial proof that 
he was Giovanni Saracinesca and not an impostor. His 
father and grandfather had jealously kept all the records 
of themselves which were necessary, from the marriage 
certificate of the original Don Leone, who had signed the 
deed, to the register of San Giacinto’s own birth. Copies 
were obtained, properly drawn up and certified, of the 
parish books and of the few government documents which 
were officially preserved in the kingdom of Naples before 
1860 , and the lawyers declared themselves ready to open 
the case. Up to this time the strictest secrecy was pre- 
served, at the request of San Giacinto himself. He said 
that in such an important matter he wished nothing to 
transpire until he was ready to act; more especially as 
the Saracinesca themselves could not be ignorant of the 
true state of the case and had no right to receive notice 
of the action beforehand. As Corona had foreseen, San 
Giacinto intended to obtain the decision by means of a 
perfectly legal trial, and was honestly ready to court 
enquiry into the rights he was about to assert. When 
the moment came and all was ready, he went to the Pa- 
lazzo Saracinesca and asked for the prince, who received 
him in the same room in which the two had met when 
the ex-innkeeper had made his appearance in Pome 
nearly three months earlier. As San Giacinto entered 
he felt that he had not wasted his time during that short 
interval. 

“ I have come to talk with you upon a business which 
must be unpleasant to you,” he began. Unfortunately 
it cannot be avoided. I beg you to believe that it is my 
wish to act loyally and fairly.” 

I hope so, ” said Saracinesca, bending his bushy gray 
eyebrows and fixing his keen old eyes upon his visitor. 

^Wou need not doubt it,” replied San Giacinto rather 
proudly. You are doubtless acquainted with the nature 


sant’ ilakio. 


275 


of the deed by which our great-grandfathers agreed to 
transfer the titles and property to the younger of the 
two. When we first spoke of the matter I was not aware 
of the existence of a saving clnuse. I cannot suppose you 
ignorant of it. That clause provided that if Leone Sara- 
cinesca married hnd had a lawful heir, the deed should 
be null and void. He did marry, as you know. I am his 
direct descendant, and have children of my own by my 
first marriage. I cannot therefore allow the clause in 
question to remain in abeyance any longer. With all due 
respect to you, I am obliged to tell you quite frankly 
that, in law, I am Prince Saracinesca.’’ 

Having thus stated his position as plainly as possible, 
San Giacinto folded his great hands upon his knee and 
leaned against the back of his chair. Saracinesca looked 
as though he were about to make some hasty answer, but 
he controlled his intention and rose to his feet. After 
walking twice up and down the room, he came and stood 
in front of his cousin. 

Let us be plain in what we say,’’ he began. “ I give . 
you my word that, until Montevarchi sent back those 
papers the other day, I did not know what they con- 
tained. I had not read them for thirty years, and at 
that time the clause escaped me. I do not remember to 
have noticed it. This may have been due to the fact 
that I had never heard that Leone had any living descend- 
ants, and should therefore have attached no importance 
to the words if I had seen them.” 

believe you,” said San Giacinto, calmly. The old 
man’s eyes flashed. 

I always take it for granted that I am believed, ” he 
answered. ^^Will you give me your word that you are 
what you assert yourself to be, Giovanni Saracinesca, the 
great-grandson and lawful heir of Leone?” 

“Certainly. I pledge my honour that I am; and I, 
too, expect to be believed by you.” 

There was something in the tone of the answer that 
struck a sympathetic chord in Saracinesca’s nature. San 
Giacinto had risen to his feet, and there was something 
in the huge, lean strength of him, in the bold look of his 
eyes, in the ring of his deep voice, that inspired respect. 
Hough he was, and not over refined or carefully trained 


276 


sant’ ilario. 


ill the ways of the world, cruel perhaps, and overbearing 
too; but he was every inch a Saracinesca, and the old 
man felt it. 

“ I believe you,’’ answered the prince. You may take 
possession when you please. I am Don Leone, and you 
are the head of the house.” 

He made a gesture full of dignity, as though resigning 
then and there his name and the house in which he lived, 
to him who was lawfully entitled to both. The action 
was magnificent and worthy of the man. There was a 
superb disregard of consequences in his readiness to give 
up everything rather than keep for a moment what was 
not his, which affected San Giacinto strangely. In jus- 
tice to the latter it must be remembered that he had not 
the faintest idea that he was the instrument of a gigan- 
tic fraud from which he was to derive the chief advan- 
tage. He instinctively bowed in acknowledgment of 
his cousin’s generous conduct. 

“ I shall not take advantage of your magnanimity, ” he 
said, “until the law has sanctioned my doing so.” 

“ As you please, ” answered the other. “ I have noth- 
ing to conceal from the law, but I am prejudiced against 
lawyers. Do as you think best. A family council can 
settle the matter as well as the courts.” 

“ Your confidence in me is generous and noble. I pre- 
fer, however, that the tribunal should examine the mat- 
ter.” 

“As you please,” repeated Saracinesca. There was no 
reason for prolonging an interview which could not be 
agreeable to either party. The old man remained stand- 
ing. “No opposition will be made to the suit,” he said. 
“ You will simply produce your papers in proper form, 
and I will declare myself satisfied.” He held out his 
hand. 

“ I trust you will bear me no ill-will, ” said San Gia- 
cinto rather awkwardly. 

“For taking what is yours and not mine? Not in the 
least. Good-evening.” 

San Giacinto left the room. When he was gone, Sara- 
cinesca stood still for a moment, and then sank into a 
chair. His strong nature had sustained him through the 
meeting and would sustain him to the end, but he was 


sant’ ilakio. 


277 


terribly shaken, and felt a strange sensation of numbness 
in the back of his head, which was quite new to him. 
For some minutes he sat still as though dazed and only 
half conscious. Then he rose again, shook himself as 
though to get rid ot a bad dream and rang the bell. He 
sent for Giovanni, who appeared immediately. 

‘‘San Giacinto has been here,” he said quickly. “He 
is the man. You had better tell your wife, as she will 
want to collect her things before we leave the house.” 

Giovanni was staggered by his father’s impetuosity. 
He had realised that the danger existed, but it had 
always seemed indefinitely far removed. 

“ I suppose there will be some legal proceedings before 
everything is settled,” he said with more calmness than 
he felt. 

“ What is that to us? We must go, sooner or later.” 

“ And if the courts do not decide in his favour, what 
then? ” 

“There is no doubt about it,” answered the prince, 
pacing the room as his excitement returned. “You and 
I are nobody. We had better go and live in an inn. 
That man is honest. I hate him, but he is honest. Why 
do you stand there staring at me? Were you not the 
first to say that if we are impostors we should give up 
everything of our own free-will? And now you seem to 
think that I will fight the suit ! That is your logic ! That 
is all the consistency you have acquired in your travels ! 
Go and tell your wife that you are nobody, that I am 
nobody ! Go and tell her to give you a title, a name for 
men to call you by ! Go into the market and see whether 
you can find a name for your father ! Go and hire a house 
for us to live in, when that Neapolitan devil has brought 
Flavia Montevarchi to live in the palace where your 
mother died, where you were born — poor Giovanni ! Not 
that I pity you any more than I pity myself. Why should 
I? You are young and have done this house the honour 
to spend most of your life out of it. But after all — poor 
Giovanni ! ” 

Saracinesca seized his son’s hand and looked into his 
eyes. The young man’s face was perfectly calm, almost 
serene in its expression of indifference to misfortune. 
His whole soul was preoccupied by greater and nobler 


278 


sant’ ilario. 


emotions than any which conld be caused by worldly loss. 
He had been with Corona again, had talked with her and 
had seen that look in her face which he had learned to 
dread more than he had ever dreaded anything in his 
life. What was life itself without that which her eyes 
refused? 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Prince Montevarchi was very much surprised when he 
was told that Anastase Gouache wished to see him, and 
as he was very much occupied with the details of the 
suit his first impulse was to decline the visit. Although 
he had no idea that matters had already gone so far be- 
tween the Zouave and Faustina, he was not, however, so 
blind as the young girl had supposed him to be. He was 
naturally observant, like most men who devote their 
lives to the pursuit of their own interests, and it had not 
escaped him that Faustina and Gouache were very often 
to be seen talking together in the world. Had he pos- 
sessed a sense of humour he might possibly have thought 
that it would be inexpressibly comical if Gouache should 
take it into his head to fall in love with the girl ; but the 
Italians are not a humorous people, and the idea did not 
suggest itself to the old gentleman. He consented to 
receive Gouache because he thought the opportunity 
would be a good one for reading the young man a lecture 
upon the humility of his station, and upon the arrogance 
he displayed in devoting himself thus openly to the 
daughter of Casa Montevarchi. 

“Good-day, Monsieur Gouache,’’ he said solemnly, as 
Anastase entered. “ Pray be seated. To what do I owe 
the honour of your visit? ” 

Anastase had put on a perfectly new uniform for the 
interview, and his movements were more than usually 
alert and his manners a shade more elaborate and formal 
than on ordinary occasions. He felt and behaved as 
young men of good birth do who are serving their year 
in the army, and who, having put on their smartest 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


279 


tunic, hope tha^m a half light they may be taken for 
officers. 

“Will you allow me to explain my position in the first 
place?” he asked, seating himself and twisting his cap 
slowly in his hands. 

“Your position? By all means, if you desire to do so. 
It is an excellent rule in all discourses to put the defini- 
tion before the argument. Nevertheless, if you would 
inform me of the nature of the affair, it might help me 
to understand you better.” 

“ It is very delicate — but I will try to be plain. What 
I am, I think you know already. I am a painter and I 
have been successful. Bor the present, I am a Zouave, 
but my military service does not greatly interfere with 
my profession. We have a good deal of time upon our 
hands. My pictures bring me a larger income than I can 
spend.” 

“ I congratulate you, ” observed Montevarchi, opening 
his small eyes in some astonishment. “The pursuit of 
the fine arts is not generally very lucrative. Bor myself, 
I confess that I am satisfied with those treasures which 
my father has left me. I am very fond of pictures, it is 
true; but you will understand that, when a gallery is 
filled, it is full. You comprehend, I am sure? Much 
as I might wish to own some of the works of the modern 
Breneh school, the double disadvantage of possessing 
already so many canvases, and the still stronger con- 
sideration of my limited fortune — yes, limited, I assure 
you ” 

“Pardon me,” interrupted Gouache, whose face red- 
dened suddenly, “ I had no intention of proposing to sell 
you a picture. I am not in the habit of advertising 
myself nor of soliciting orders for my work.” 

“ My dear sir ! ” exclaimed the prince, seeing that he 
was on a wrong tack, “have I suggested such a thing? 
If my words conveyed the idea, pray accept all my 
excuses. Since you had mentioned the subject of art, 
my thoughts naturally were directed to my gallery of 
pictures. I am delighted to hear of your success, for you 
know how much interest we all feel in him who was the 
victim of such an unfortunate accident, due doubtless to 
the carelessness of my men.” 


280 


sant’ ilario. 


“Pray do not recall that! Your hospitality more than 
repaid me for the little I suffered. The matter concern- 
ing which I wish to speak to you is a very serious one, 
and I hope you will believe that I have considered it 
well before taking a step which may at first surprise you. 
To be plain, I come to ask you to confer upon me the 
honour of Donna Faustina Montevarchi’s hand.” 

Montevarchi leaned back in his chair, speechless with 
amazement. He seemed to gasp for breath as his long 
fingers pressed the green table-cover before him. His 
small eyes were wide open, and his toothless jaw dropped. 
Gouache feared that he was going to be taken ill. 

“You! ” cried the old man in a cracked voice, when he 
had recovered himself enough to be able to speak. 

“Yes,” answered Anastase, who was beginning to feel 
very nervous as he observed the first results of his pro- 
posal. He had never before quite realised how utterly 
absurd the match would seem to Montevarchi. “Yes,” 
he repeated. “Is the idea so surprising? Is it incon- 
ceivable to you that I should love your daughter? Can 
you not understand ” 

“ I understand that you are wholly mad ! ” exclaimed 
the prince, still staring at his visitor in blank astonish- 
ment. 

“No, I am not mad. I love Donna Faustina ” 

“You! You dare to love Faustina! You, a painter, 
a man with a profession and with nothing but what you 
earn! You, a Zouave, a man without a name, with- 
out ” 

“You are an old man, prince, but the fact of my hav- 
ing made you an hounourable proposition does not give 
you the right to insult me.” The words were spoken in 
a sharp, determined voice, and brought Montevarchi to 
his senses. He was a terrible coward and would rather 
go to a considerable expense than face an angry man. 

“Insult you, my dear sir? I would not think of it! ” 
he answered in a very different tone. “But my dear 
Monsieur Gouache, I fear that this is quite impossible! 
In the first place, my daughter’s marriage is already 
arranged. The negotiations have been proceeding for 
some time — she is to marry Frangipani — you must have 
heard it. And, moreover, with all due respect for the 


sant’ ilario. 


281 


position you have gained by your immense talent — 
immense, my dear friend, I am the first to say it — the 
instability of human atfairs obliges me to seek for her a 
fortune, which depends upon the vulgar possession of 
wealth rather than upon those divine gifts of genius with 
which you are so richly endowed.’^ 

The change from anger to flattery was so sudden that 
Gouache was confounded and could not find words in 
which to answer what was said to him. Montevarchi’s 
eyes had lost their expression of astonishment, and a 
bland smile played about the corners of his sour mouth, 
while he rubbed his bony hands slowly together, nodding 
his head at every comma of his elaborate speech. . Anas- 
tase saw, however, that there was not the slightest hope 
that his proposal would ever be entertained, and by his 
own sensations he knew that he had always expected 
this result. He felt no disappointment, and it seemed 
to him that he was in the same position in which he had 
been before he had spoken. On the other hand he was 
outraged by the words that had fallen from Montevar- 
chi’slips in the first moments of anger and astonishment. 
A painter, a man with a profession, without a name! 
Gouache was too human not to feel the sting of each 
truth as it was uttered. He would have defined himself 
in very much the same way without the least false pride; 
but to hear his own estimate of himself, given by another 
person as the true one, was hard to bear. A painter, 
yes — he was proud of it. A man with a profession, yes 
— was it not far nobler to earn money by good work than 
to inherit what others had stolen in former times? A 
man without a name — was not his own beginning to be 
famous, and was it not better to make the name Gouache 
glorious by his own efforts than to be called Orsini 
because one’s ancestors had been fierce and lawless as 
bears, or Sciarra because one’s progenitor had slapped 
the face of a pope? Doubtless it was a finer thing to be 
great by one’s own efforts in the pursuit of a noble art 
than to inherit a greatness originally founded upon a 
superior rapacity, and a greater physical strength than 
had characterised the ordinary men of the period. 
Nevertheless, Gouache knew with shame that at that 
moment he wished that his name could be changed to 


282 


sant’ ilakio. 


Frangipanij and the fabric of his independence, of which 
he had so long been proud, was shaken to its foundations 
as he realised that in spite of ail fame, all glory, all 
genius, he could never be what the miserly, cowardly, 
lying old man before him was by birth — a Koman 
prince. The conclusioA was at once inexpressibly 
humiliating and supremely ludicrous. He felt himself 
laughable in his own eyes, and was conscious that a 
smile was on his face, which Montevarchi would not 
understand. The old gentleman was still talking. 

“I cannot tell you,’’ he was saying, ‘‘how much I 
regret my total inability to comply with a request which 
evidently proceeds from the best motives, I might almost 
say from the heart itself. Alas ! my dear friend, we are 
not all masters of our actions. The cares of a household 
like mine require a foresight, an hourly attention, an 
unselfish devotion which we can only hope to obtain by 
constant ” 

He was going to say “by constant recourse to prayer,” 
but he reflected that Gouache was probably not of a 
religious turn of mind, and he changed the sentence. 

“ by constant study of the subject. Situated as I 

am, a Koman in the midst of Komans, I am obliged to 
consider the traditions of my own people in respect of 
all the great affairs of life. Believe me, I entreat you, 
that, far from having any prejudice against yourself, I 
should rejoice sincerely could I take you by the hand 
and call you my son. But how can I act? What can I 
do? Go to your own country, dear Monsieur Gouache, 
think no more of us, or of our daughters, marry a woman 
of your own nation, and you will not be disappointed in 
your dreams of matrimonial felicity ! ” 

“ In other words, you refuse altogether to listen to my 
proposal? ” By this time Gouache was able to j)ut the 
question calmly. 

“ Alas, yes ! ” replied the prince with an air of mock 
regret that exasperated the young man beyond measure. 
“I cannot think of it, though you are indeed a most 
sympathetic young man.” 

“ In that case I will hot trespass upon your time any 
longer,” said Gouache, who was beginning to fear lest 
his coolness should forsake him. 


sant’ ilario. 


283 


As he descended the broad marble stairs his detesta- 
tion of the old hypocrite overcame him, and his wrath 
broke out. 

“ You shall pay me for this some day, you old scoun- 
drel ! ” he said aloud, very savagely. 

Montevarchi remained in his study after Gouache had 
gone, A sour smile distorted his thin lips, and the 
expression became more and more accented until the old 
man broke into a laugh that rang drily against the vaulted 
ceiling. Some one knocked at the door, and his merri- 
ment disappeared instantly, Arnoldo Meschini entei:ed 
the room. There was something unusual about his 
appearance which attracted the prince’s attention at 
once. 

Has anything happened? ” 

‘‘Everything. The case is won. Your Excellency’s 
son-in-law is Prince Saracinesca.” 

The librarian’s bright eyes gleamed with exultation 
and there was a slight flush in his cheeks that contrasted 
oddly with his yellow skin. A disagreeable smile made 
his intelligent face more ugly than usual. He stood half- 
way between the door and his employer, his long arms 
hanging awkwardly by his sides, his head thrust for- 
ward, his knees a little bent, assuming by habit a servile 
attitude of attention, but betraying in his look that he 
felt himself his master’s master. 

Montevarchi started as he heard the news. Then he 
leaned eagerly across the table, his fingers as usual slowly 
scratching the green cloth. 

“Are you quite sure of it?” he asked in a trembling 
voice. “ Have you got the verdict? ” 

Meschini produced a tattered pocket-book, and drew 
from it a piece of stamped paper, which he carefully 
unfolded and handed to the prince. 

“ There is an attested note of it. See for yourself.” 

Montevarchi hastily looked over the small document, 
and his face flushed slowly till it was almost purple, 
while the paper quivered in his hold. It was clear that 
everything had succeeded as he had hoped, and that his 
most sanguine expectations were fully realised. His 
thoughts suddenly recurred to Gouache, and he laughed 
again at the young man’s assurance. 


284 


sant’ ilaeio. 


“Was Saracinesca in the court? ” he asked presently. 

“No. There was no one connected with the case 
except the lawyers on each side. It did not amount to a 
trial. The Signor Marchese’s side produced the papers 
proving his identity, and the original deed was submitted. 
The prince's side stated that his Excellency was con- 
vinced of the justice of the claim and would make no 
opposition. Thereupon the court granted an order to 
the effect that the Signor Marchese was the heir provided 
for in the clause and was entitled to enjoy all the advan- 
tages arising from the inheritance ; but that, as there was 
no opposition made by the defendants, the subsequent 
transactions would be left in the hands of the family, 
the court reserving the power to enforce the transfer in 
case any difficulty should arise hereafter. Of course, it 
will take several months to make the division, as the 
Signor Marchese will only receive the direct inheritance 
of his great-grandfather, while the Saracinesca retain all 
that has come to them by their marriages during the last 
four generations.” 

“Of course. Who will be employed to make the 
division?” 

“ Half Eome, I fancy. It will be an endless business.” 

“But San Giacinto is prince. He will do homage for 
his titles next Epiphany.” 

“Yes. He must present his ten pounds of wax and a 
silver bowl — cheap ! ” observed Meschini with a grin. 

It may be explained here that the families of the 
Eoman nobility were all subject to a yearly tribute of 
merely nominal value, which they presented to the Pope 
at the Feast of the Epiphany. The custom was feudal, 
the Pope having been the feudal lord of all the nobles 
until 1870. The tribute generally consisted of a certain 
weight of pure wax, or of a piece of silver of a specified 
value, or sometimes of both. As an instance of the sur- 
vival of such customs in other countries, I may mention 
the case of one great Irish family which to this day 
receives from another a yearly triWte, paid alternately 
in the shape of a golden rose and a golden spur. 

“ So we have won everything ! ” exclaimed Montevarchi 
after a pause, looking hard at the librarian, as though 
trying to read his thoughts. “ We have won everything, 


saxt’ ilaeio. 


285 


and tlie thanks are due to you, my good friend, to you, 
the faithful and devoted companion who has helped me 
to accomplish this act of true justice. Ah, how can I 
ever express to you my gratitude ! 

The means of expression were mentioned in our agree-|‘ 
ment,’’ answered Meschini with a servile inclination. 

I agreed to do the work for your Excellency at a certain 
fixed price, as your Excellency may remember. Beyond 
that I ask nothing. I am too humble an individual to 
enjoy the honour of Prince Montevarchi’s personal grati- 
tude.^’ 

‘‘Yes, of course, but that is mere money!” said the 
old gentleman somewhat hastily, but contemptuously 
withal. “ Gratitude proceeds from the heart, not from 
the purse. When I think of all the work you have done, 
of the unselfish way in which you have devoted yourself 
to this object, I feel that money can never repay you. 
Money is sordid trash, Meschini, sordid trash! Let us 
not talk about it. Are we not friends? The most deli- 
cate sensibilities of my soul rejoice when I consider what 
we have accomplished together. There is not another 
man in Borne whom I would trust as I trust you, most 
faithful of men ! ” 

“The Signor Principe is too kind,” replied Meschini. 
“Kevertheless, I repeat that I am quite unworthy of such 
gratitude for having merely performed my part in a 
business transaction, especially in one wherein my own 
interests were so deeply concerned.” 

“ My only regret is that my son-in-law can never know 
the share you have had in his success. But that, alas, is 
quite impossible. How, indeed, would it be practicable 
to inform him! And my daughter, too! She would 
remember you in all her innocent prayers, even as I 
shall do henceforth! No, Meschini, it is ordained that 
I, and I alone, should be the means of expressing to you 
the heartfelt thanks of those whom you have so highly 
benefited, but who unfortunately can never know the 
name of their benefactor. Tell me now, did the men 
of the law look long at the documents? Did they show 
any hesitation? Have you any reason to believe that 
their attention was roused, arrested by — by the writ- 
ing? ” 


286 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


“ No, indeed ! I sliould be a poor workman if a parcel 
of lawyers could detect iny handwriting ! ” 

“ It is a miracle ! ” exclaimed Montevarchi, devoutly. 
‘‘ I consider that heaven has interposed directly to accom- 
plish the ends of justice. An angel guided your hand, my 
dear friend, to make you the instrument of good ! ” 

I am quite ready to believe it. The transaction has 
been as providential for me as for the Signor Marchese.” 

‘‘Yes,^’ answered the prince rather drily. ‘^And now, 
my dear Meschini, will you leave me for a time? I have 
appointed this hour to see my last remaining daughter 
concerning her marriage. She is the last of those fair 
flowers ! Ah me ! How sad a thing it is to part with 
those we love so well ! But we have the consolation of 
knowing that it is for their good, that consolation, that 
satisfaction which only come to us when we have faith- 
fully done our duty. Return to your library, therefore, 
Meschini, for the present. The consciousness of good 
well done is yours also to-day, and will soothe the hours 
of solitude and make your new labours sweet. The 
reward of righteousness is in itself and of itself. Good- 
bye, my friend, good-bye ! Thank you, thank you ” 

‘AVould it be agreeable to your Excellency to let me 
have the money now?’^ asked the librarian. There was 
a firmness in the tone that startled Montevarchi. 

“What money?’’ he inquired with a well-feigned sur- 
prise. “ I do not understand. ” 

“Twenty thousand scudi, the price of the work,” 
replied Meschini with alarming bluntness. 

“ Twenty thousand scudi!” cried the prince. “I re- 
member that there was some mention of a sum — two 
thousand, I think I said. Even that is enormous, but I 
was carried away in the excitement of the moment. We 

are all liable to such weakness ” 

“You agreed to pay me twenty thousand scudi in cash 
on the day that the verdict was given in favour of your 
son-in-law.” 

“I never agreed to anything of the kind. My dear 
friend, success has quite turned your head I I have not 
so much money at my disposal in the whole world.” 

“You cannot afford to make a fool of me,” cried 
Meschini, making a step forward. His face was red 


sant’ ilario. 


287 


with, anger, and his long arms made odd gestures. “ Will 
you pay me the money or not? ’’ 

“ If you take this tone with me I will pay you nothing 
whatever. I shall even cease to feel any sense of grati- 
tude ” 

“ To hell with your gratitude ! ” exclaimed the other 
fiercely. ^‘Either you pay me the money now, or I go 
at once to the authorities and denounce the whole 
treachery.’’ 

“You will only go to the galleys if you do.” 

“You will go with me.” 

“Kot at all. Have you any proof that I have had 
anything to do with the matter? I tell you that you are 
quite mad. If you wanted to play this trick on me you 
should have made me sign an agreement. Even then I 
would have argued that since you had forged the docu- 
ments you had, of course, forged the agreement also. 
But you have nothing, not so much as a scrap of paper 
to show against me. Be reasonable and I will be mag- 
nanimous. I will give you the two thousand I spoke of 
in the heat of anticipation ” 

“ You will give me the twenty thousand you solemnly 
promised me,” said Meschini, with concentrated anger. 

Montevarchi rose slowly from his chair and rang the 
bell. He knew that Meschini would not be so foolish as 
to expose himself, and would continue to h«ipe that he 
might ultimately get what he asked. 

“I cannot argue with a madman,” he said calmly. 

He was not in the least afraid of the librarian. The 
idea never entered his mind that the middle-aged, round- 
shouldered scholar could be dangerous. A single word 
from Gouache, a glance of the artist’s eye had cowed him 
less than an hour ago; but Meschini’s fury left him in- 
different. The latter saw that for the present there was 
nothing to be done. To continue such a scene before a 
servant would be the worst kind of folly. 

“We will talk the matter over at another time,” he 
said sullenly, as he left the study by a small door which 
opened upon a corridor in communication with the 
library. 

Montevarchi sent the servant who answered the bell 
with a message begging Donna Faustina to come to the 


288 


sant’ ilario. 


study at once. Since it was to be a day of interviews he 
determined to state the case plainly to his daughter, and 
bid her make ready to comply with his will in case the 
match with Frangipani turned out to be possible. He 
seemed no more disturbed by Meschini’s anger than if 
the affair had not concerned him in the least. He had, 
indeed, long foreseen what would occur, and even at the 
moment when he had promised the bribe he was fully 
determined never to pay it. The librarian had taken the 
bait greedily, and it was his own fault if the result did 
not suit him. He had no redress, as Montevarchi had 
told him ; there was not so much as a note to serve as a 
record of the bargain. Meschini had executed the for- 
gery, and he would have to ruin himself in order to 
bring any pressure to bear upon his employer. This the 
latter felt sure that he would not do, even if driven to 
extremities. Meschini’s nature was avaricious and there 
was no reason to suppose that he was tired of life, or 
ready to go to the galleys for a bit of personal ven- 
geance, when, by exercising a little patience, he might 
ultimately hope to get some advantage out of the crime 
he had committed. Montevarchi meant to pay him what 
he considered a fair price for the work, and he did not 
see that Meschini had any means of compelling him to 
pay more. Now that the thing was done, he began to 
regret that he himself had not made some agreement 
with San Giacinto, but a moment’s reflection sufiiced to 
banish the thought as unworthy of his superior astute- 
ness. His avarice was on a large scale and was merging 
into ambition. It might have been foreseen that,, after 
having married one of his two remaining daughters to a 
man who had turned out to be Prince Saracinesca, his 
determination to match Faustina with Frangipani would 
be even stronger than it had been before. Hence his 
sudden wish to see Faustina and to prepare her mind for 
what was about to take place. All at once it seemed as 
though he could not act quickly enough to satisfy his 
desire of accomplishment. He felt as an old man may 
feel who, at the end of a busy life, sees countless things 
before him which he would still do, and hates the thought 
of dying before all are done. A feverish haste to com- 
plete this last step in the aggrandisement of his family, 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


289 


overcame the old prince. He could not understand why 
he had submitted to wasting his time with Gouache and 
Meschini instead of busying himself actively in the ac- 
complishment of his purpose. There was no reason for 
waiting any longer. Frangipani’s father had already 
half -agreed to the match, and what remained to be done 
involved only a question of financial details. 

As he sat waiting for Faustina a great horror of death 
rose suddenly and clearly before him. He was not a very 
old man and he would have found it hard to account for 
the sensation- It is a notable fact, too, that he feared 
death rather because it might prevent him from carrying 
out his intentions, than because his conscience was bur- 
dened with the recollection of many misdeeds. His whole 
existence had been passed in such an intricate labyrinth 
of duplicity towards others and towards himself that he 
no longer distinguished between the true and the untrue. 
Even in this last great fraud he had so consistently de- 
ceived his own sense of veracity that he almost felt him- 
self to be the instrument of justice he assumed to be. 
The case was a delicate one, too, for the most unpreju- 
diced person could hardly have escaped feeling sym- 
pathy for San Giacinto, the victim of his ancestor’s 
imprudence. Montevarchi found it very easy to believe 
that it was permissible to employ any means in order to 
gain such an end, and although he might have regarded 
the actual work of the forgery in the light of a crime, 
venial indeed, though contrary to the law, his own share 
in the transaction, as instigator of the deed itself, ap- 
^peared to be defensible by a whole multitude of reasons. 
San Giacinto, by all the traditions of primogeniture dear 
to the heart of the Eoman noble, was the head of the 
family of Saracinesca. But for a piece of folly, hardly 
to be equalled in Montevarchi’ s experience, San Gia- 
cinto would have been in possession of the estates and 
titles without opposition or contradiction since the day 
of his father’s death. The mere fact that the Saracinesca 
had not defended the case proved that they admitted the 
justice of their cousin’s claims. Had old Leone foreseen 
the contingency of a marriage in his old age, he would 
either never have signed the deed at all, or else he would 
have introduced just such a conditional clause as had 


290 


SANT' ILAEIO. 


been forged by Meschini. When a great injustice has 
been committed, through folly or carelessness, when 
those who have been most benefited by it admit that 
injustice, when to redress it is merely to act in accord- 
ance with the spirit of the laws, is it a crime then to 
bring about so much good by merely sacrificing a scruple 
of conscience, by em^^loying some one to restore an in- 
heritance to its rightful possessor with a few clever 
strokes of the pen? The answer seemed so clear to Mon- 
tevarchi that he did not even ask himself the question. 
Indeed it would have been superfluous to do so, for he 
had so often satisfied all objections to doubtful courses by 
a similar sophistry that he knew beforehand what reply 
would present itself to his self-inquiry. He did not even 
experience a sense of relief as he turned from the con- 
templation of what he had just done to the question of 
Faustina’s marriage, in which there was nothing that 
could torment his conscience. He was not even aware 
that he ought to recognise a difference between the two 
affairs. He was in great haste to settle the preliminaries, 
and that was all. If he should die, he thought, the prin- 
cess would have her own way in everything, and would 
doubtless let Faustina throw herself away upon some 
such man as Gouache. The thought roused him from his 
reverie, and at the same time brought a sour smile to 
his face. Gouache, of all people ! He looked up and saw 
that Faustina had entered and was standing before him, 
as though expecting him to speak. Her delicate, angelic 
features were pale, and she held her small hands folded 
before her. She had discovered by some means that 
Gouache had been with her father and she feared that 
something unpleasant had happened and that she was 
about to be called to account. The vision of Frangipani, 
too, was present in her mind, and she anticipated a 
stormy interview. But her mind was made up; she 
would have Anastase or she would have nobody. The 
two exchanged a preliminary glance before either spoke. 


sant’ ilario. 


291 


CHAPTER XX. 

Montevarchi made his daughter sit beside him and 
took her hand affectionately in his, assuming at the same 
time the expression of sanctimonious superiority he 
always wore when he mentioned the cares of his house- 
hold or was engaged in regulating any matter of impor- 
tance in his family. Flavia used to imitate the look 
admirably, to the delight of her brothers and sisters. 
He smiled meaningly, pressed the girPs fingers, and 
smiled again, attempting in vain to elicit some response. 
But Faustina remained cold and indifferent, for she was 
used to her father’s ways and did not like them. 

“You know what I am going to say, I am sure,” he 
began. “ It concerns what must be very near your heart, 
my dear child.” 

“I do not know what it can be,” answered Faustina, 
gravely. She was too well brought up to show any of 
the dislike she felt for her father’s way of doing things, 
but she was willing to make it as hard as possible for 
him to express himself. 

“Cannot you guess what it is?” asked the old man, 
with a ludicrous attempt at banter. “ What is it that is 
nearest to every girl’s heart? Is not that little heart of 
yours already a resort of the juvenile deity?” 

“I do not understand you, papa.” 

“Well, well, my dear — I see that your education has 
not included a course of mythology. It is quite as well, 
perhaps, as those heathens are poor company for the 
young. I refer to marriage, Faustina, to that all-impor- 
tant step which you are soon to take.” 

“ Have you quite decided to marry me to Frangipani? ” 
asked the young girl with a calmness that somewhat 
disconcerted her father. 

“ How boldly you speak of it ! ” he exclaimed with a 
sigh of disapproval. “ I will not, however, conceal from 
you that I hope ” 

“Pray talk plainly with me, papa!” cried Faustina 
suddenly looking up. “I cannot bear this suspense.” 


292 


sant’ ilaeto. 


“Ah! Is it so, little one?” Montevarchi shook his 
finger playfully at her. “ I thought I should find you 
ready! So you are anxious to become a princess at once? 
Well, well, all women are alike! ” 

Faustina drew herself up a little and fixed her deep 
brown eyes upon her father’s face, very quietly and 
solemnly. 

“You misunderstand me,” she said. “I only wish to 
know your decision in order that I may give you my 
answer.” 

“And what can that answer be? Have I not chosen 
wisely, a husband fit for you in every way? ” 

“ From your point of view, I have no doubt of it.” 

“ I trust you are not about to commit the unpardonable 
folly of differing from me, my daughter, ” answered Mon- 
tevarchi, with a sudden change of tone indicative of 
rising displeasure. “ It is for me to decide, for you to 
accept my decision.” 

“Upon other points, yes. In the question of marriage 
I think I have something to say.” 

“ Is it possible that you can have any objections to the 
match I have found for you? Is it possible that you are 
so foolish as to fancy that at your age you can under- 
stand these things better than I? Faustina, I would not 
have believed it ! ” 

“ How can you understand what I feel? ” 

“ It is not a question of feeling, it is a question of wis- 
dom, of foresight, of prudence, of twenty qualities which 
you are far too young to possess. If marriage were a 
matter of feeling, of vulgar sentiment, I ask you, what 
would become of the world? Of what use is it to have 
all the sentiment in life, if you have not that which 
makes life itself possible? Can you eat sentiment? Can 
you harness sentiment in a carriage and make it execute 
a trottata in the Villa Borghese? Can you change an ounce 
of sentiment into good silver scudi and make it pay for 
a journey in the hot weather? Ho, no, my child. Heaven 
knows that I am not avaricious. Few men, I think, know 
better than I that wealth is perishable stuff — but so is 
this mortal body, and the perishable must be nourished 
with the perishable, lest dust return to dust sooner than 
it would in the ordinary course of nature. Money alone 


sant’ ilario. 


293 


will not give happiness, but it is, nevertheless, most im- 
portant to possess a certain amount of it,” 

“ I would rather do without it than be miserable all my 
life for having got it.” 

‘^Miserable all your life? Why should you be misera- 
ble? No woman should be unhappy who is married to a 
good man. My dear, this matter admits of no discus- 
sion. Frangipani is young, handsome, of irreproachable 
moral character, heir to a great fortune and to a great 
name. You desire to be in love. Good. Love will come, 
the reward of having chosen wisely. It will be time 
enough then to think of your sentiments. Dear me ! if 
we all began life by thinking of sentiment, where would 
our existence end? ” 

‘‘ Will you please tell me whether you have quite de- 
cided that I am to marry Frangipani?” Faustina found 
her father’s discourses intolerable, and, moreover, she 
had something to say which would be hard to express 
and still harder to sustain by her actions. 

‘‘ If you insist upon my giving you an answer, which 
you must have already foreseen, I am willing to tell you 
that I have quite decided upon the match.” 

“I cannot marry him! ” exclaimed Faustina, clasping 
her hands together and looking into her father’s face. 

“ My dear, ” answered Montevarchi with a smile, it 
is absolutely decided. We cannot draw back. You must 
marry him.” 

“Must, papa? Oh, think what you are saying! I am 
not disobedient, indeed I am not. I have always sub- 
mitted to you in everything. But this — no, not this. 
Bid me do anything else — anything ” 

“ But, my child, nothing else would produce the same 
result. Be reasonable. You tell me to impose some other 
duty upon you. That is not what I want. I must see 
you married before I die, and I am an old man. Each 
year, each day, may be my last. Of what use would it 
be that you should make another sacrifice to please me, 
when the one thing I desire is to see you well settled 
with a good husband? I have done what I could. I have 
procured you the best match in all Rome, and now you 
implore me to spare you, to reverse my decision, to tell 
my old friend Frangipani that you will not have his son. 


294 


sant’ ilario. 


and to go out into the market to find you another help- 
meet. It is not reasonable. I had expected more dutiful 
conduct from you.” 

“ Is it undutiful not to be able to love a man one hardly 
knows, when one is ordered to do so?” 

“You will make me lose my patience, Faustina!” ex- 
claimed Montevarchi, in angry tones. “Have I not 
explained to you the nature of love? Have I not told 
you that you can love your husband as much as you 
please? Is it not a father’s duty to direct the affections 
of his child as I wish to do, and is it not the child’s first 
obligation to submit to its father’s will and guidance? 
What more would you have? In truth, you are very 
exacting! ” 

“I am very unhappy! ” The young girl turned away 
and rested her elbow on the table, supporting her chin 
in her hand. She stared absently at the old bookcases as 
though she were trying to read the titles upon the dingy 
bindings. Montevarchi understood her words to convey 
a submission and changed his tone once more. 

“ Well, well, my dear, you will never regret your obedi- 
ence,” he said. “ Of course, my beloved child, it is never 
easy to see things as it is best that we should see them. 
I see that you have yielded at last ” 

“ I have not yielded in the least ! ” cried Faustina, sud- 
denly facing him, with an expression he had never seen 
before. 

“ What do you mean? ” asked Montevarchi in consid- 
erable astonishment. 

“ What I say. I will not marry Frangipani — I will 
not! Do you understand?” 

“ISTo. I do not understand such language from my 
daughter ; and as for your determination, I tell you that 
you will most certainly end by acting as I wish you to 
act.” 

“You cannot force me to marry. What can you do? 
You can put me into a convent. Do you think that would 
make me change my mind? I would thank God for any 
asylum in which I might find refuge from such tyranny.” 

“My daughter,” replied the prince in blaiid tones, 
“I am fully resolved not to be angry with you. Your 
undutiful conduct proceeds from ignorance, which is 


sant’ ilario. 295 

never an offence, though it is always a misfortune. If 
you will have a little patience ” 

“ I have none ! ” exclaimed Faustina, exasperated by 
her father’s manner. My undutiful conduct does not 
proceed from ignorance — it proceeds from love, from 
love for another man, whom I will marry if I marry any 
one.” 

“Faustina! ” cried Montevarchi, holding up his hands 
in horror and amazement. “ Do you dare to use such 
language to your father ! ” 

“ I dare do anything, everything — I dare even tell you 
the name of the man I love — Anastase Gouache ! ” 

“My child! My child! This is too horrible! I must 
really send for your mother.” 

“Do what you will.” 

Faustina had risen to her feet and was standing before 
one of the old bookcases, her hands folded before her, 
her eyes on fire, her delicate mouth scornfully bent. 
Montevarchi, who was really startled almost out of his 
senses, moved cautiously towards the bell, looking stead- 
ily at his daughter all the while as though he dreaded 
some fresh outbreak. There was something ludicrous in 
his behaviour which, at another time, would not kave 
escaped the young girl. Now, however, she was too 
much in earnest to perceive an57’thing except the danger 
of her position and the necessity for remaining firm at 
any cost. She did not understand why her mother was 
to be called, but she felt that she could face all her 
family if necessary. She kept her eyes upon her father 
and was hardly conscious that a servant entered the 
room. Montevarchi sent a message requesting the prin- 
cess to come at once. Then he turned again towards 
Faustina. 

“You can hardly suppose,” he observed, “that I take 
seriously what you have just said ; but you are evidently 
very much excited, and your mother’s presence will, I 
trust, have a soothing effect. You must be aware that it 
is very wrong to utter such monstrous untruths — even 
in jest ” 

“ I am in earnest. I will marry Monsieur Gouache or 
I will marry no one.” 

Montevarchi really believed that his daughter’s mind 


296 


sant’ ilakio. 


was deranged. His interview with Gouache had con- 
vinced him- that Faustina meant what she said, though 
he affected to laugh at it, but he was wholly unable to 
account for her conduct on any theory but that of 
insanity. Being at his wits’ end he had sent for his 
wife, and while waiting for her he did not quite know 
what to do. 

“My dear child, what is Monsieur Gouache? A very 
estimable young man, without doubt, but not such a one 
as we could choose for your husband.” 

“I have chosen him,” answered Faustina. “That is 
enough.” 

“ How you talk, my dear ! How rashly you talk ! As 
though choosing a husband were like buying a new hat ! 
And you, too, whom I always believed to be the most 
dutiful, the most obedient of my children! But your 
mother and I will reason with you, we will endeavour to 
put better thoughts into your heart.” 

Faustina glanced scornfully at her father and turned 
away, walking slowly in the direction of the window. 

“ It is of no use to waste your breath on me, ” she said 
presently. “I will marry Gouache or nobody.” 

“You — marry Gouache?” cried the princess, who 
entered at that moment, and heard the last words. Her 
voice expressed an amazement and horror fully equal to 
her husband’s. 

“ Have you come to join the fray, mamma? ” inquired 
Faustina, in English. 

“Pray speak in a language I can understand,” said 
Montevarchi who, in a whole lifetime, had never mas- 
tered a word of his wife’s native tongue. 

“ Oh, Lotario ! ” exclaimed the princess. “ What has 
the child been telling you?” 

“ Things that would make you tremble, my dear 1 She 
refuses to marry Frangipani ” 

“Refuses I But, Faustina, you do not know what you 
are doing 1 You are out of your mind! ” 

“ And she talks wildly of marrying a certain French- 
man, a Monsieur Gouache, I believe — is there such a 
man, my dear?” 

“Of course, Lotario! The little man you ran over. 
How forgetful you are ! ” 


SANT’ ILAEIO. 


297 


“Yes, yes, of course. I know. But you must reason 
with her, Guendalina ’’ 

“It seems to me, Lotario, that you should do that 

“ My dear, I think the child is insane upon the subject. 
Where could she have picked up such an idea? Is it a 
mere caprice, a mere piece of impertinence, invented to 
disconcert the sober senses of a careful father?’^ 

“ Nonsense, Lotario ! She is not capable of that. After 
all, she is not Flavia, who always had something dread- 
ful quite ready, just when you least expected it.” 

“ I almost wish she were Flavia ! ” exclaimed Monte- 
varchi, ruefully. “ Flavia has done very well.” During 
all this time Faustina was standing with her back towards 
the window and her hands folded before her, looking 
from the one to the other of the speakers with an air of 
bitter contempt which was fast changing to uncontrol- 
lable anger. Some last remaining instinct of prudence 
kept her from interrupting the conversation by a fresh 
assertion of her will, and she waited until one of them 
chose to speak to her. She had lost her head, for she 
would otherwise never have gone so far as to mention 
Gouache’s name, but, as with all very spontaneous na- 
tures, with her to break the first barrier was to go to the 
extreme, whatever it might be. Her clear brown eyes 
were very bright, and there was something luminous 
about her angelic face which showed that her whole 
being was under the influence of an extraordinary emo- 
tion, almost amounting to exaltation. It was impossible 
to foresee what she would say or do. 

“ Your father almost wishes you were Flavia ! ” groaned 
the princess, shaking her head and looking very grave. 
Then Faustina laughed scornfully and her wrath bubbled 
over. 

“ I am not Flavia ! ” she cried, coming forward and 
facing her father and mother. “ I daresay you do wish 
I were. Flavia has done so very well. Yes, she is 
Princess Saracinesca this evening, I suppose. Indeed 
she has done well, for she has married the man she loves, 
as much as she is capable of loving anything. And that 
is all the more reason why I should do the same. Be- 
sides, am I as old as Flavia that you should be in such 


298 


sant’ ilario. 


a hurry to marry me? Do you think I will yield? Do 
you think that while I love one man, I will be so base 
as to marry another?” 

“ I have explained to you that love ” 

“Your explanations will drive me mad! You may 
explain anything in that way — and prove that Love 
itself does not exist. Do you think your saying so 
makes it true? There is more truth in a little of my 
love than in all your whole life ! ” 

“ Faustina ! ” 

“What? May I not answer you? Must I believe you 
infallible when you use arguments that would not satisfy 
a child? Is my whole nature a shadow because yours 
cannot understand my reality?” 

“ If you are going to make this a question of iheta- 
physics ” 

“I am not, I do not know what metaphysic means. 
But I will repeat before my mother what I said to you 
alone. I will not marry Frangipani, and you cannot 
force me to marry him. If I marry any one I will have 
the man I love.” 

“But, my dearest Faustina,” cried the princess in 
genuine distress, “ this is a mere idea — a sort of mad- 
ness that has seized upon you. Consider your position, 
consider what you owe to us, consider ” 

“Consider, consider, consider! Do you suppose that 
any amount of consideration would change me?” 

“Do you think your childish anger will change us?” 
inquired Montevarchi, blandly. He did not care to 
lose his temper, for he was quite indifferent to Faustina’s 
real inclinations, if she would only consent to marry 
Frangipani. 

“ Childish ! ” cried Faustina, her eyes blazing witli 
anger. “Was I childish when I followed him out into 
the midst of the revolution last October, when I was 
nearly killed at the Serristori, when I thought he was 
dead and knelt there among the ruins until he found me 
and brought me home? Was that a child’s love?” 

The princess turned pale and grasped her husband’s 
arm, staring at Faustina in horror. The old. man trem- 
bled and for a few moments could not find strength to 
speak. Nothing that Faustina could have invented 


sant’ ilario. 


299 


could have produced such a sudden and tremendous effect 
as this revelation of what had happened on the night of 
the insurrection, coming from the girl’s own lips with 
the unmistakable accent of truth. The mother’s instinct 
was the first to assert itself. With a quick movement 
she threw her arms round the young girl, as though to 
protect her from harm. 

“ It is not true, it is not true, ” she cried in an agonised 
tone. “ Faustina, my child — it is not true ! ” 

“It is quite true, mamma,” answered Faustina, who 
enjoyed an odd satisfaction in seeing the effect of her 
’wbrds, which can only be explained by her perfect inno- 
cence. ' “Why are you so much astonished? I loved 
him — I thought he was going out to be killed — I would 
not let him go alone ” 

“Oh, Faustina! How could you do it!” moaned the 
princess. “ It is too horrible — it is not to be believed 


“I loved him, I love him still.” 

Princess Montevarchi fell into a chair and burst into 
tears, burying her face in her hands and sobbing aloud. 

“ If you are going to cry, Guendalina, you had better 
go away,” said her husband, who was now as angry as 
his mean nature would permit him to be. She was so 
much accustomed to obey that she left the room, crying 
as she went, and casting back a most sorrowful look at 
Faustina. 

Montevarchi shut the door and, coming back, seized 
his daughter’s arm and shook it violently. 

“Fool!” he cried angrily, unable to find any other 
word to express his rage. 

Faustina said nothing but tried to push him away, her 
bright eyes gleaming with contempt. Her silence exas- 
perated the old man still further. Like most very 
cowardly men he could be brutal to women when he was 
angry. It seemed to him that the girl, by her folly, 
had dashed from him the last great satisfaction of his 
life at the very moment when it was within reach. He 
could have forgiven her for ruining herself, had she done 
so ; he could not forgive her for disappointing his ambi- 
tion ; he knew that one word of the story she had told 
would make the great marriage impossible, and he knew 


300 


sant’ ilakio. 


that she had the power to speak that word when she 
pleased as well as the courage to do so. 

Fool ! ” he repeated, and before she could draw back, 
he struck her across the mouth with the back of his 
hand. 

A few drops of bright red blood trickled from her 
delicate lips. With an instinctive movement she pressed 
her handkerchief to the wound. Montevarchi snatched 
it roughly from her hand and threw it across the room. 
From his eyes she guessed that he would strike her again 
if she remained. With a look of intense hatred she 
made a supreme effort, and concentrating the whole 
strength of her slender frame wrenched herself free. 

“ Coward ! ” she cried, as he reeled backwards ; then, 
before he could recover himself, she was gone and he 
was left alone. 

He was terribly angry, and at the same time his ideas 
were confused, so that he hardly understood anything 
but the main point of her story, that she had been with 
Gouache on that night when Corona had brought her 
home. He began to reason again. Corona knew the 
truth, of course, and her husband knew it too. Monte- 
varchi realised that he had already taken his revenge for 
their complicity, before knowing that they had injured 
him. His overwrought brain was scarcely capable of 
receiving another impression. He laughed aloud in a 
way that was almost hysterical. 

“ All ! ” he cried in sudden exultation. “ All — even 

to their name — but the other ” His face changed 

quickly and he sank into his chair and buried his face in 
his hands, as he thought of all he had lost through 
Faustina’s folly. And yet, the harm might be repaired 
— no one knew except 

He looked up and saw that Meschini had returned 
and was standing before him, as though waiting to be 
addressed. The suddenness of the librarian’s appear- 
ance made the prince utter an exclamation of surprise. 

“Yes, I have come back,” said Meschini. “The mat- 
ter we were discussing cannot be put off, and I have 
come back to ask you to be good enough to pay the 
money.” 

Montevarchi was nervous and had lost the calm tone 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


301 


of superiority he had maintained before his interview 
with Faustina. The idea of losing Frangipani, too, 
made his avarice assert itself very strongly. 

“I told you,” he replied, “that I refused altogether to 
talk with you, so long as you addressed me in that tone. 
I repeat it. Leave me, and when you have recovered 
your manners I will give you something for yourself. 
You will get nothing so long as you demand it as though 
it were a right.” 

“I will not leave this room without the money,” 
answered Meschini, resolutely. The bell was close to 
the door. The librarian placed himself between the 
prince and both. 

“ Leave the room ! ” cried Montevarchi, trembling with 
anger. He had so long despised Meschini, that the 
exhibition of obstinacy on the part of the latter did not 
frighten him. 

The librarian stood before the bell and the latch of the 
door, his long arms hanging down by his sides, his face 
yellow, his eyes red. Any one might have seen that he 
was growing dangerous. Instead of repeating his refu- 
sal to go, he looked steadily at his employer and a 
disagreeable smile played upon his ugly features. Monte- 
varchi saw it and his fury boiled over. He laid his 
hands on the arms of his chair as though he would rise, 
and in that moment he would have been capable of strik- 
ing Meschini as he had struck Faustina. Meschini 
shuffled forwards and held up his hand. 

“Do not be violent,” he said, in a low voice. “I am 
not your daughter, you know.” 

Montevarchi’ s jaw dropped, and he fell back into his 
chair again. 

“You listened — you saw ” he gasped. 

“Yes, of course. Will you pay me? I am desperate, 
and I will have it. You and your miserable secrets are 
mine, and I will have my price. I only want the sum 
you promised. I shall be rich in a few days, for I have 
entered into an affair in which I shall get millions, as 
many as you have perhaps. But the money must be 
paid to-morrow morning or I am ruined, and you must 
give it to me. Do you hear? Do you understand that 
I will have what is mine? ” 


302 


sant’ ilario. 


At this incoherent speech, Montevarchi recovered some- 
thing of his former nerve. There was something in 
Meschini’s language that sounded like argument, and to 
argue was to temporise. The prince changed his tone. 

“ But, my dear Meschini, how could you be so rash as 
to go into a speculation when you knew that the case 
might not be decided for another week? You are really 
the most rash man I ever knew. I cannot undertake to 
guarantee your speculations. I will be just. I have 

told you that I would give you two thousand ” 

“ Twenty thousand ! ” Meschini came a little nearer. 
“Not a single baiocco if you are exorbitant.’’ 

“Twenty thousand hard, good scudi in cash, I tell 
you. No more, but no less either.” The librarian’s 
hands were clenched, and he breathed hard, while his 
red eyes stared in a way that began to frighten Monte- 
varchi. 

“No, no, be reasonable! My dear Meschini, pray do 
not behave in this manner. You almost make me believe 
that you are threatening me. I assure you that I desire 

to do what is just ” 

“ Give me the money at once ” 

“ But I have not so much — murder ! ! Ah — gh — gh 


Arnoldo Meschini’s long arms had shot out and his 
hands had seized the prince’s throat in a grip from 
which there was no escape. There lurked a surprising 
strength in the librarian’s round shoulders, and his 
energy was doubled by a fit of anger that amounted to 
insanity. The old man rocked and swayed in his chair, 
and grasped at the green table-cover, but Meschini had 
got behind him and pressed his fingers tighter and 
tighter. His eye rested upon Faustina’s handkerchief 
that lay on the floor at his feet. His victim was almost 
at the last gasp, but the handkerchief would do the job 
better. Meschini kept his grip with one hand, and with 
the other snatched up the bit of linen. He drew it tight 
round the neck and wrenched at the knot with his yellow 
teeth. There was a convulsive struggle, followed by a 
long interval of quiet. Then another movement, less 
violent this time, another and another, and then Mes- 
chini felt the body collapse in his grasp. It was over. 


sant’ ilario. 


303 


Montevarchi was dead. Meschini drew back against tlie 
bookcases, trembling in every joint. He scarcely saw 
the objects in the room, for his head swam and his senses 
failed him, from horror and from the tremendous phys- 
ical effort he had made. Then in an instant he realised 
what he had done, and the consequences of the deed 
suggested themselves. 

He had not meant to kill the prince. So long as he 
had kept some control of his actions he had not even 
meant to lay violent hands upon him. But he had the 
nature of a criminal, by turns profoundly cunning and 
foolishly rash. A fatal influence had pushed him onward 
so soon as he had raised his arm, and before he was 
thoroughly conscious of his actions the deed was done. 
Then came the fear of consequences, then again the 
diabolical reasoning which intuitively foresees the im- 
mediate results of murder, and provides against them 
at once. 

‘^Nobody knows that I have been here. Nothing is 
missing. No one knows about the forgery. No one 
will suspect me. There is no one in the library nor in 
the corridor. The handkerchief is not mine. If it was 
not his own it was Donna Faustina’s. No one will sus- 
pect her. It will remain a mystery.” 

Meschini went towards the door through which he had 
entered and opened it. He looked back and held his 
breath. The prince’s head had fallen forward upon his 
hands as they lay on the table, and the attitude was that 
of a man overcome by despair, but not that of a dead 
body. The librarian glanced round the room. There 
was no trace of a struggle. The position of the furni- 
ture had not been changed, nor had anything fallen on 
the floor. Meschini went out and softly closed the door 
behind him, leaving the dead man alone. 

The quiet afternoon sun fell upon the houses on the 
opposite side of the street, and cast a melancholy reflec- 
tion into the dismal chamber where Prince Montevarchi 
had passed so many hours of his life, and in which that 
life had been cut short so suddenly. On the table before 
his dead hands lay the copy of the verdict, the testimony 
of his last misdeed, of the crime for which he had paid 
the forfeit upon the very day it was due. It lay there 


304 


sant’ ilario. 


like tlie superscription upon a malefactor’s gallows in 
ancient times, the advertisement of the reason of his 
death to all who chose to inquire. Not a sound was 
heard save the noise that rose faintly and at intervals 
from the narrow street below, the cry of a hawker, the 
song of a street-boy, the bark of a dog. To-morrow the 
poor body w^ould be mounted upon a magnificent cata- 
falque, surrounded by the pomp of a princely mourning, 
illuminated by hundreds of funeral torches, an object of 
aversion, of curiosity, even of jest, perhaps, among those 
who bore the prince a grudge. Many of those who had 
known him would come and look on his dead face, and 
some would say that he was changed and others that he 
was not. His wife and his children would, in a few 
hours, be all dressed in black, moving silently and mourn- 
fully and occasionally showing a little feeling, though not 
more than would be decent. There would be masses 
sung, and prayers said, and his native city would hear 
the tolling of the heavy bells for one of her greatest 
personages. All this would be done, and more also, 
until the dead prince should be laid to rest beneath the 
marble floor of the chapel where his ancestors lay side 
by side. 

But to-day he sat in state in his shabby chair, his head 
lying upon that table over which he had plotted and 
schemed for so many years, his white Angers almost 
touching the bit of paper whereon was written the ruin 
of the Saracinesca. 

And upstairs the man who had killed him shufiled 
about the library, an anxious expression on his yellow 
face, glancing from time to time at his hands as he took 
down one heavy volume after another, practising in 
solitude the habit of seeming occupied, in order that he 
might not be taken unawares when an under-servant 
should be sent to tell the insignificant librarian of what 
had happened that day in Casa Monte varchi. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


305 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Giovanni came home late in the afternoon and found 
Corona sitting by the fire in her boudoir. She had known 
that he would return before long, but had not antici- 
pated his coming with any pleasure. When he entered 
the room she looked up quietly, without a smile, to assure 
herself that it was he and no one else. She said noth- 
ing, and he sat down upon the other side of the fireplace. 
There was an air of embarrassment about their meetings, 
until one or the other had made some remark which led 
to a commonplace conversation. On the present occasion 
neither seemed inclined to be the first speaker and for 
some minutes they sat opposite to each other in silence. 
Giovanni glanced at his wife from time to time, and once 
she turned her head and met his eyes. Her expression 
was cold and grave as though she wished him to under- 
stand that she had nothing to say. He thought she had 
never been so beautiful before. The firelight, striking 
her face at an upward angle, brought out clearly the 
noble symmetry of her features, the level brow, the 
wide, delicate nostrils, the even curve of her lips, 
the splendid breadth of her smooth forehead, shaded by 
her heavy black hair. She seemed to feel cold, for she 
sat near the flames, resting one foot upon the fender, in 
an attitude that threw into relief the perfect curves of 
her figure, as she bent slightly forward, spreading her 
hands occasionally to the blaze. 

“ Corona ” Giovanni stopped suddenly after pro- 

nouncing her name, as though he had changed his mind 
while in the act of speaking. 

“What is it?” she asked indifferently enough. 

“Would you like to go away? I have been wondering 
whether it would not be better than staying here.” 

She looked up in some surprise. She had thought of 
travelling more than once of late, but it seemed to her 
that to make a journey together would be only to increase 
the difficulties of the situation. There would be of 
necessity more intimacy, more daily converse than the 

V 


306 


sant’ ilario. 


life in Eome forced upon her. She shrank from the idea 
for the very reason which made it attractive to her hus- 
band. 

“No/’ she answered. “Why should we travel? Be^ 
sides, with a child so young ” 

“We might leave Orsino at home,” suggested Gio- 
vanni. He was not prepared for the look she gave him 
as she replied. 

“I will certainly hot consent to that.” 

“Would you be willing to take him with you, and 
leave me here? You could easily find a friend to go 
with you — even my father. He would enjoy it im- 
mensely.” 

There was the shortest possible pause before she 
answered him this time. It did not escape him, for he 
expected it. 

“No. I will not do that, either. I do not care to go 
away. Why should I, and at such a time?” 

“ I think I will go alone, in that case, ” said Giovanni 
quietly, but watching her face. She made no reply, but 
looked at him curiously as though she suspected him of 
laying a trap for her. 

“You say nothing. Is silence consent?” 

“ I think it would be very unwise. ” 

“You do not answer me. Be frank. Corona. Would 
you not be glad to be left alone for a time? ” 

“Why do you insist?” she asked with a little impa- 
tience. “ Are you trying to make me say something that 
I shall regret? ” 

“ Would you regret it, if it were said? Why not be 
honest? It would be an immense relief to you if I went 
away. I could find an excellent excuse and nobody 
would guess that there was anything wrong.” 

“ For that matter — there is nothing wrong. Of course 
no one would say anything.” 

“ I know you will think that I have no tact,” Giovanni 
observed with considerable justice. 

Corona could not repress a smile at the remark, which 
expressed most exactly what she herself was thinking. 

“ Frankly — I think it would be better to leave things 
alone. Do you not think so, too?” 

“How coolly you say that!” exclaimed Giovanni. 


sant’ ilarto. 


307 


is so easy for you — so hard for me. T would do 
anything you asked, and you will not ask anything, 
because you would make any sacrifice rather than accept 
one from me. Did you ever really love me. Corona? Is 
it possible that love can be killed in a day, by a word? 
I wonder whether there is any woman alive as cold as 
you are ! Is it anything to you that I should suffer as I 
am suffering, every day?^’ 

“ You cannot understand ” 

“No — that is true. I cannot understand. I was 
base, cowardly, cruel — I make no defence. But if I 
was all that, and more too, it was because I loved you, 
because the least suspicion drove me mad, because I 
could not reason, loving you as I did, any more than I 
can reason now. Oh, I love you too much, too wholly, 
too foolishly! I will try and change and be another 
man — so that I may at least look at you without going 
mad 1 ” 

He rose to his feet and went towards the door. But 
Corona called him back. The bitterness of his words 
and the tone in which they were spoken hurt her, and 
made her realise for a moment what he was suffering. 

“Giovanni — dear — do not leave me so — I am un- 
happy, too.” 

“ Are you? ” He had come to her side and stood look- 
ing down into her eyes. 

“ Wretchedly unhappy.” She turned her face away 
again. She could not help it. 

“ You are unhappy, and yet I can do nothing. Why 
do you call me back?” 

“ If I only could, if I only could I ” she repeated in a 
low voice. 

There was silence for a few seconds, during which 
Giovanni could hear his heart beat loudly and irregu- 
larly. 

“ If I could but move you a little ! ” he said at last, 
almost inaudibly. “ If I could do anything, suffer any- 
thing for you ” 

She shook her head sorrowfully and then, as though 
afraid that slie had given him pain, she took his hand 
and pressed it affectionately — affectionately, not lov- 
ingly. It was as cold as ice. He sighed and once more 


308 


sant’ ilario. 


turned away. Just then the door opened, and old Pas- 
quale appeared, his face pale with fright. 

“Eccellenza, a note, and the man says that Prince 
Montevarchi has just been murdered, and that the note 
is from Donna Faustina, and the police are in the Palazzo 
Montevarchi, and that the poor princess is dying, and 

5? 

Corona had risen quickly with a cry of astonishment. 
Giovanni had taken the letter and stood staring at the 
servant as though he believed that the man was mad. 
Then he glanced at the address and saw that it was for 
his wife. 

‘‘ Faustina is accused of the murder ! ” she exclaimed, 
must go to her at once. The carriage, Pasquale, 
instantly ! ” 

‘‘ Faustina Montevarchi — killed her own father ! ’’ cried 
Giovanni in the utmost astonishment. 

Corona thrust the note into his hands. It only con- 
tained a few words scrawled in an irregular hand as 
though written in great emotion. 

“ Of course it is some horrible mistake, ” said Corona, 
“but I must go at once.” 

“I will go with you. I may be able to give some 
help.” 

Five minutes , later, they were descending the stairs. 
The carriage was not ready, and leaving orders for it to 
follow them they went out into the street and took a 
passing cab. Under the influence of the excitement 
they acted together instinctively. During the short 
drive they exchanged but few words, and those only 
expressive of amazement at the catastrophe. At the 
Palazzo Montevarchi everything was already in confu- 
sion, the doors wide open, the servants hurrying aim- 
lessly hither and thither with frightened faces. They 
had just been released from the preliminary examination 
held by the prefect of police. A party of gendarmes 
stood together in the antechamber talking, while one 
of their number mounted guard at the door with a 
drawn sabre, allowing no one to leave the house. A 
terrified footman led Giovanni and Corona to the great 
drawing-room. 

The vast chamber was lighted by a single lamp which 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


309 


stood vipoii a yellow marble pier-table, and cast dim 
shadows on the tapestry of the walls. The old-fash- 
ioned furniture was ranged stiffly around the room as 
usual; the air was damp and cold, not being warmed 
even by the traditional copper brazier. The voices of 
the group of persons collected within the circle of the 
light sounded hollow, and echoed strangely in the huge 
emptiness. Dominant above the rest were heard the 
hard tones of the prefect of police. 

“I can assure you,” he was saying, ^Hhat I feel the 
greatest regret in being obliged to assert my decision.” 

Giovanni and Corona came forward, and the rest made 
way for them. The prefect stood with his back to the 
light and to the table, like a man who is at bay. He 
was of middle height, very dark, and inclining to stout- 
ness. His aquiline features and his eyes, round in 
shape, but half veiled by heavy lids, gave him some- 
thing of the appearance of an owl. When he spoke, 
his voice was harsh and mechanical, and he always 
seemed to be looking just over the head of the person he 
addressed. He made no gestures and held himself very 
straight. 

Opposite him stood Faustina Montevarchi, her face 
luminously pale, her eyes almost wild in their fixed 
expression. She held her hands clasped before her, and 
her fingers worked nervously. Around her stood her 
brothers and their wives, apparently speechless with 
horror, crowding together like frightened sheep before 
the offlcer of the law. Neither her mother, nor Flavia, 
nor San Giacinto accompanied the rest. It would be 
impossible to imagine a number of persons more dumb 
and helpless with fear. 

“ Oh Corona, save me ! ” cried Faustina, throwing her- 
self into her friend’s arms as soon as she saw her face. 

“ Will you be good enough to explain what has 
occurred? ” said Giovanni, confronting the prefect sternly. 
^‘Do you mean to tell me that you have accused this 
innocent child of murdering her father? You are mad, 
sir ! ” 

Pardon me. Signor Principe, I am not mad, and no 
one can regret more than I what has occurred here,” 
replied the other in loud, metallic tones. “ I will give 


310 


sant’ ilario. 


you the facts in two minutes. Prince Monte varchi was 
found dead an hour ago. He had been dead some time. 
He had been strangled by means of this pocket handker- 
chief — observe the stains of blood — which I hold as 
part of the evidence. The Signora Donna Faustina is 
admitted to be the last person who saAV the prince alive. 
She admits, furthermore, that a violent scene occurred 
between her and her father this afternoon, in the course 
of which his Excellency struck his daughter, doubtless 
in the way of paternal correction — observe the bruise 
upon the young lady’s mouth. There is also another 
upon her arm. It is clear that, being young and vigor- 
ous and remarkably well grown, she opposed violence to 
violence. She went behind him, for the prince was 
found dead in his chair, leaning forward upon the table, 
and she succeeded in knotting the handkerchief so firmly 
as to produce asphyxia superinduced by strangulation 
without suspension. All this is very clear. I have 
examined every member of the household, and have 
reluctantly arrived at the conclusion, most shocking no 
doubt to these pacifically disposed persons, that this 
young lady allowed herself to be so far carried away by 
her feelings as to take the life of her parent. Upon this 
charge I have no course but to arrest her person, the case 
being very clear, and to convey her to a safe place.” 

Giovanni could scarcely contain his wrath while the 
prefect made this long speech, but he was resolved to 
listen to the account given without interrupting it. 
"When the man had finished, however, his anger burst 
out. 

“And do you take nothing into consideration,” he 
cried, “ but the fact that the prince was strangled with 
that handkerchief, and that there had been some disa- 
greement between him and his daughter in the course of 
the day? Do you mean to say, that you, who ought to 
be a man of sense, believe it possible that this delicate 
child could take a hale old gentleman by the throat and , 
tlirottle him to death? It is madness, I say! It is 
absurd ! ” 

“It is not absurd,” answered the prefect, whose 
mechanical tone never changed throughout the conversa- 
tion. “ There is no other explanation for the facts, and 


SANT’ ILARIO. 311 

the facts are undeniable. Would you like to see the 
body? ” 

“ There are a thousand explanations each ten thousand 
times as reasonable as the one you offer. He was prob- 
ably murdered by a servant out of spite, or for the sake 
of robbing him. You are so sure of your idea that I 
daresay you did not think of searching the room to see 
whether anything had been taken or not.” 

“You are under a delusion. Everything has been 
searched. Moreover, it is quite well known that his 
deceased Excellency never kept money in the house. 
There was consequently nothing to take.” 

“ Then it was done out of spite, by a servant, unless 
some one got in through the window.” 

“No one could get in through the window. It was 
done out of anger by this young lady.” 

“ I tell you it was not ! ” cried Giovanni, growing 
furious at the man’s obstinacy. 

“There is reason to believe that it was,” returned the 
prefect, perfectly unmoved. 

Giovanni stamped his foot upon the floor angrily and 
turned away. Faustina had drawn back a little and was 
leaning upon Corona’s arm for support, while the latter 
spoke words of comfort in her ear, such words as she 
could find at such a time. A timid murmur of approval 
arose from the others every time Giovanni spoke, but 
none of them ventured to say anything distinctly. Gio- 
vanni was disgusted with them all and turned to the 
young girl herself. 

“ Donna Faustina, will you tell me what you know? ” 

She had seemed exhausted by the struggle she had 
already endured, but at Sant’ Ilario’s question, she 
straightened herself and came forward again one or two 
steps. Giovanni thought her eyes very strange, but she 
spoke collectedly and clearly. 

“ I can only say what I have said before,” she answered. 
“ My father sent for me this afternoon, I should think 
about three o’clock. He spoke of my marriage, which 
he has been contemplating some time. I answered that 

I would not marry Prince Frangipani’s son, because ” 

she hesitated. 

“Because?” 


312 


sant’ ilario. 


“Because I love another man/’ she continued almost 
defiantly. “A man who is not a prince but an artist.” 

A murmur of horror ran round the little group of the 
girl’s relations. She glanced at them scornfully. 

“I am not ashamed of it,” she said. “But I would not 
tell you unless it were necessary — to make you under- 
stand how angry he was. I forgot — he had called my 
mother, and she was there. He sent her away. Then 
he came back and struck me ! I put my handkerchief to 
my mouth because it bled. He snatched it away and 
threw it on the floor. He took me by the arm — he was 
standing — I wrenched myself out of his hands and ran 
away, because I was afraid of him. I did not see him 
again. Beyond this I know nothing.” 

Giovanni was struck by the concise way in which 
Faustina told her story. It was true that she had told 
it for the second time, but, while believing entirely in 
her innocence, he saw that her manner might easily 
have made a bad impression upon the prefect. When she 
had done, she stood still a moment. Then her hands 
dropped by her sides and she shrank back again to 
Corona who pub her arm round the girl’s waist and sup- 
ported her. 

“I must say that my sister’s tale seems clearly true,” 
said the feeble voice of Ascanio Bellegra. His thin, 
fair beard seemed to tremble as he moved his lips. 

“ Seems ! ” cried Corona indignantly. “ It is true ! 
How can any one be so mad as to doubt it? ” 

“ I do not deny its truth, ” said the prefect, speaking 
in the air. “ I only say that the appearances are such as 
to oblige me to take steps ” 

“If you lay a hand on her ” began Giovanni. 

“Do not threaten me,” interrupted the other calmly. 
“My men are outside,” 

Giovanni had advanced towards him with a menacing 
gesture. Immediately Faustina’s sisters-in-law began to 
whimper and cry with fright, while her brothers made 
undecided movements as though wishing to part the two 
angry men, but afraid to come within arm’s length of 
either. 

'“Giovanni!” exclaimed Corona. “Do not be violent 
— it is of no use. Hear me, ” she added, turning towards 


sant’ ilario. 313 

the prefect, and at the same time making a gesture that 
seemed to shield Faustina. 

“I am at your service, Signora Principessa, but my 
time is valuable.” 

“ Hear me — 1 will not detain you long. You are doing 
a very rash and dangerous thing in trying to arrest 
Donna Faustina, a thing you may repent of. You are no 
doubt acting as you believe right, but your heart must 
tell you that you are wrong. Look at her face. She is 
a delicate child. Has she the features of a murderess? 
She is brave against you, because you represent a horri- 
ble idea against which her whole nature revolts, but can 
you believe that she has the courage to do such a deed, 
the bad heart to will it, or the power to carry it out? 
Think of what took place. Her father sent for her sud- 
denly. He insisted roughly on a marriage she detests. 
What woman would not put out her whole strength to 
resist such tyranny? What woman would submit quietly 
to be matched with a man she loathes? She said, ‘I will 
not.’ She even told her father and mother, together, 
that she loved another man. Her mother left the room, 
her mother, the only one from whom she might have ex- 
pected support. She was alone with her father, and he 
was angry. Was he an enfeebled invalid, confined to his 
chair, broken with years, incapable of an effort? Ask 
his children. We all knew him well. He was not very 
old, he was tall, erect, even strong for his years. He 
was angry, beside himself with disappointment. He rises 
from his chair, he seizes her by the arm, he strikes her 
in the face with his other hand. You say that he struck 
her when he was seated. It is impossible — could she 
not have drawn back, avoiding the blow? Would the 
blow itself have had such force? Ho. He was on his 
feet, a tall, angry man, holding her by one arm. Is it 
conceivable that she, a frail child, could have had the 
physical strength to force him back to his seat, to hold 
him there while she tied that handkerchief round his 
neck, to resist and suppress his struggles until he was 
dead? Do you think such a man would die easily? Do 
you think that to send him out of the world it would be 
enough to put your fingers to his throat — such little 
fingers as these?” she held up Faustina’s passive hand 


314 


sant’ ilario. 


in her own, before their eyes. A man does not die in 
an instant by strangling. He struggles, he strikes des- 
perate blows, he turns to the right and the left, twisting 
himself with all his might. Could this child have held 
him? I ask it of your common sense. I ask of your 
heart whether a creature that God has made so fair, so 
beautiful, so innocent, could do such terrible work. Tho 
woman who could do such things would bear the sign of 
her badness in her face, and the fear of what she had 
done in her soul. She would tremble, she would have 
tried to escape, she would hesitate in her story, she 
would contradict herself, break down, attempt to shed 
false tears, act as only a woman who has committed a 
first great crime could act. And this child stands here, 
submitted to this fearful ordeal, defended by none, but 
defending herself with the whole innocence of her nature, 
the glory of truth in her eyes, the self-conscious courage 
of a stainless life in her heart. Is this assumed? Is this 
put on? You have seen murderers — it is your office to 
see them — did you ever see one like her? Do you not 
know the outward tokens of guilt when they are before 
your eyes? You would do a thing that is monstrous in 
absurdity, monstrous in cruelty, revolting to reason, out- 
rageous to every instinct of human nature. Search, 
inquire, ask questions, arrest whom you will, but leave 
this child in peace; this child, with her angel face, her 
fearless eyes, her guiltless heart ! 

Encouraged by Corona’s determined manner as well as 
by the good sense of her arguments, the timid flock of 
relations expressed their approval audibly. Giovanni 
looked at his wife in some surprise; for he had never 
heard her make so long a speech before, and had not sus- 
pected her of the ability she displayed. He was proud 
of her in that moment and moved nearer to her, as though 
ready to support every word she had uttered. The prefect 
alone stood unmoved by her eloquence. He was accus- 
tomed in his profession to hear far more passionate ap- 
peals to his sensibilities, and he was moreover a man 
who, being obliged generally to act quickly, had acquired 
the habit of acting upon the first impulse of his intelli- 
gence. For a moment his heavy lids were raised a little, 
either in astonishment or in admiration, but no other 
feature of his face betrayed that he was touched. 


sant’ ilario. 


315 


“Signora Principessa/’ he said in liis usual tone, 
“those are arguments which may be used with propriety 
by the persons who will defend the accused before the 
tribunals ’’ 

Giovanni laughed in his face. 

“ Do you suppose, seriously, that Donna Faustina will 
ever be brought to trial?’’ he asked scornfully. The 
prefect kept his temper wonderfully well. 

“It is my business to suppose so,” he answered. “I 
am not the law, nor his Eminence either, and it is not 
for me to weigh the defence or to listen to appeals for 
mercy. I act upon my own responsibility, and it is for 
me to judge whether the facts are likely to support me. 
My reputation depends upon my judgment and upon 
nothing else. The fate of the accused depends upon a 
number of considerations with which I have nothing to 
do. I must tell you plainly that this interview must 
come to an end. I am very patient. I wish to overlook 
nothing. Arguments are of no avail. If there is any 
better evidence to offer against any one else in this 
house, I am here to take note of it.” 

He looked coolly round the circle of listeners. Faus- 
tina’s relations shrank back a little under his glance. 

“ Hot being able to find any person here who appears 
more likely to be guilty, and having found enough to 
justify me in my course, I intend to remove this young 
lady at once to the Termini.” 

“You shall not!” said Giovanni, placing himself in 
front of him in a threatening attitude. “ If you attempt 
anything of the sort, I will have you in prison yourself 
before morning.” 

“You do not know what you are saying. Signor Prin- 
cipe. You cannot oppose me. I have an armed force 
here to obey my orders, and if you attempt forcible 
opposition I shall be obliged to take you also, very much 
against my will. Donna Faustina Montevarchi, I have 
the honour to arrest you. I trust you will make no resist- 
ance.” 

The semi-comic phrase fell from his lips in the profes- 
sional tone; in speaking of the arrest as an honour to 
himself, he was making an attempt to be civil according 
to his lights. He made a step forward in the direction 


316 


sant' ilario. 


of the young girl, but Giovanni seized him firmly by the 
wrist. He made no effort to release himself, however, 
but stood still. 

Signor Principe, be good enough to let go of my hand. ” 

^‘You shall not touch her,’’ answered Giovanni, not 
relinquishing his grasp. He was beginning to be dan- 
gerous. 

‘‘Signor Principe, release me at once!” said the pre- 
fect in a commanding tone. “Very well, I will call my 
men,” he added, producing a small silver whistle with 
his free hand and putting it to his lips. “If I call them, 
I shall have to send you to prison for hindering me in 
the execution of my duty,” he said, fixing his eyes on 
Giovanni and preparing to sound the call. 

Giovanni’s blood was ujj, and he would not have let 
the man go. At that moment, however, Paustina broke 
from Corona’s arms and sx)rang forward. With one hand 
she pushed back Sant’ Ilario; with the other she seized 
the whistle. 

“ I will go with you ! ” she cried, speaking to the pre- 
fect. “ I will go with him I ” she repeated, turning to 
Giovanni. “ It is a horrible mistake, but it is useless to 
oppose him any longer. I will go, I say ! ” An hysterical 
chorus of cries from her relations greeted this announce- 
ment. 

Giovanni made a last effort to prevent her from fulfill- 
ing her intention. He was too much excited to see how 
hopeless the situation really was, and his sense of justice 
Avas revolted at the thought of the indignity. 

“ Donna Faustina, I implore you ! ” he exclaimed. “ I 
can still prevent this outrage — you must not go. I will 
find the cardinal and explain the mistake — he Avill send 
an order at once.” 

“You are mistaken,” answered the prefect. “He Avill 
do nothing of the kind. Besides, you cannot leave 
this house without my permission. The doors are all 
guarded.” 

“But you cannot refuse that request,” objected Corona, 
who had not spoken during the altercation. “ It will not 
take half an hour for my husband to see his Eminence 
and get the order ” 

“Nevertheless I refuse,” replied the official firmly. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


317 


Donna Faustina must go with me at once. You are 
interfering uselessly and making a useless scandal. My 
mind is made up.” 

‘‘ Then I will go with her, ” said Corona, pressing the 
girl to her side and bestowing a contemptuous glance on 
the cowering figures around her. 

By this time her sisters-in-law had fallen into their 
respective husband’s arms, and it was hard to say whether 
the men or the women were more hopelessly hysterical. 
Giovanni relinquished the contest reluctantly, seeing that 
he was altogether overmatched by the prefect’s soldiers. 

^‘1 will go too,” he said. ‘‘You cannot object to our 
taking Donna Faustina in our carriage.” 

“ I do not object to that. But male visitors are not 
allowed inside the Termini prison after dark. The -Sig- 
nora Brincipessa may spend the night there if it is her 
pleasure: I will put a gendarme in your carriage to avoid 
informality.” 

“I presume you will accept my promise to conduct 
Donna Faustina to the place,” observed Giovanni. The 
prefect hesitated. 

“ It is informal, ” he said at last, “ but to oblige you I 
will do it. You give your word?” 

“ Yes — since you are able to use force. We act under 
protest. You will remember that.” 

Faustina’s courage did not forsake her at the last mo- 
ment. She kissed each of her brothers and each of her 
sisters-in-law as affectionately as though they had offered 
to bear her company. There were many loud cries and 
sobs and protestations of devotion, but not one proposed 
to go with her. The only one who would have been bold 
enough was Flavia, and even if she had been present she 
would not have had the heart to perform such an act of 
unselfishness. Faustina and Corona, Giovanni and the 
prefect, left the room together. 

“I will have you in prison before morning,” said Sant’ 
Ilario fiercely, in the ear of the official, as they reached 
the outer hall. 

The prefect made no reply, but raised his shoulders 
almost imperceptibly and smiled for the first time, as he 
pointed silently to the gendarmes. The latter formed 
into an even rank and tramped down the stairs after the 


318 


sant’ ilakio. 


four persons whom they aecompanied. In a few minutes 
the whole party were on their way to the Termini, Faus- 
tina with her friends in Sant’ Ilario’s carriage, the pre- 
fect in his little brougham, the soldiers on their horses, 
trotting steadily along in a close squad. 

Faustina sat leaning her head upon Corona’s shoulder, 
while Giovanni looked out of the window into the dark 
streets, his rage boiling within him, and all the hotter 
because he was powerless to change the course of events. 
From time to time he uttered savage ejaculations which 
promised ill for the prefect’s future peace, either in this 
world or in the next, but the sound of the wheels rolling 
upon the uneven paving-stones prevented his voice from 
reaching the two women. 

“Dear child,” said Corona, “do not be frightened. 
You shall be free to-night or in the morning — I will not 
leave you.” 

Faustina was silent, but pressed her friend’s hand 
again and again, as though she understood. She herself 
was overcome by a strange wonderment which made her 
almost incapable of appreciating what happened to her. 
She felt very much as she had felt once before, on the 
night of the insurrection, when she had found herself 
lying upon the pavement before the half -ruined barracks, 
stunned by the explosion, unable for a time to collect 
her senses, supported only by her physical elasticity, 
which was yet too young to be destroyed by any moral 
shock. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

On the following morning all Rome rang with the 
news that the Saracinesca had lost their title, and that 
Faustina Montevarchi had murdered her father. Xo one 
connected the two events, but the shock to the public 
mind was so tremendous that almost any ineredible tale 
would have been believed. The story, as it was generally 
told, set forth that Faustina had gone mad and had stran- 
gled her father in his sleep. Every one agreed in affirm- 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


319 


ing that he had been found dead with her handkerchief 
tied round his neck. It was further stated that the young 
girl was no longer in the Palazzo Monte varchi, hut had 
been transferred to the women’s prison at the Termini, 
pending further examination into the details of the case. 
The Palazzo Montevarchi was draped in black, and before 
niglit funeral hatchments were placed upon the front of 
the parish church bearing the Montevarchi arms. No 
one was admitted to the palace upon any pretext what- 
ever, though it was said that San Giacinto and Pla’^ia 
had spent the night there. No member of the family 
had been seen by any one, and nobody seemed to know 
exactly whence the various items of information had 
been derived. 

Strange to say, every word of what was repeated so 
freely was true, excepting that part of the tale which 
accused Faustina of having done the deed. What had 
taken place up to the time when Corona and Giovanni 
had come may be thus briefly told. 

Prince Montevarchi had been found dead by the ser- 
vant who came to bring a lamp to the study, towards 
evening, when it grew dark. As soon as the alarm was 
given a scene of indescribable confusion followed, which 
lasted until the prefect of police arrived, accompanied by 
a party of police officials. The handkerchief was exam- 
ined and identified. Thereupon, in accordance with the 
Roman practice of that day, the prefect had announced 
his determination of taking Faustina into custody. The 
law took it for granted that the first piece of circumstan- 
tial evidence which presented itself must be acted upon 
with the utmost promptitude. A few questions had 
shown immediately that Faustina was the last person 
who had seen Montevarchi alive. The young girl exhib- 
ited a calmness which surprised every one. She admitted 
that her father had been angry with her and had struck 
her, but she denied all knowledge of his death. It is 
sufficient to say that she fearlessly told the truth, so 
fearlessly as to prejudice even her own family with 
regard to her. Even the blood on the handkerchief was 
against her, though she explained that it was her own, 
and although the bruise on her lip bore out the state- 
ment. The prefect was inexorable. He explained that 


m 


SANT^ ILARIO. 


Faustina could be taken privately to the Termini, and 
that the family might use its influence on the next day 
to procure her immediate release, but that his duty com- 
pelled him for the present to secure her person, that he 
was responsible, that he was only doing his duty, and 
so forth and so on. 

The consternation of the family may be imagined. 
The princess broke down completely under what seemed 
very like a stroke of paralysis. San Giacinto and Flavia 
were not to be found at their house, and as the carriage 
had not returned, nobody knew where they were. The 
wives of Faustina’s brothers shut themselves up in their 
rooms and gave way to hysterical tears, while the broth- 
ers themselves seemed helpless to do anything for their 
sister. 

Seeing herself abandoned by every one Faustina had 
sent' for Corona Saracinesca. It was the wisest thing 
she could have done. In a quarter of an hour Corona 
and her husband entered the room together. The vio- 
lent scene which followed has been already described, in 
which Giovanni promised the prefect of police that if 
he persisted in his intention of arresting Faustina he 
should himself be lodged in the Carceri Nuove in twelve 
hours. But the prefect had got the better of the situa- 
tion, being accompanied by an armed force which Gio- 
vanni was powerless to oppose. All that could be 
obtained had been that Giovanni and Corona should take 
Faustina to the Termini in their carriage, and that 
Corona should stay with the unfortunate young girl all 
night if she wished to do so. Giovanni could not be 
admitted. 

The prison of the Termini was under the administra- 
tion of an order of nuns devoted especially to the care of 
prisoners. The prefect arrived in his own carriage sim- 
ultaneously with the one which conveyed his prisoner 
and her friends. As the gate was opened and one of the 
sisters appeared, he whispered a few words into her ear. 
She looked grave at first, and then, when she saw Faus- 
tina’s angel face, she shook her head incredulously. The 
prefect had accomplished his duty, however. The prison- 
gates closed after the two ladies, and the sentinel outside 
resumed his walk, while the carriages drove away, the 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


321 


one containing the officer of the law and the other 
Giovanni, who had himself driven at once to the Vat- 
ican, in spite of the late hour. The great cardinal re- 
ceived him but, to his amazement, refused an order of 
release. 

The sister who admitted Corona and Faustina took the 
latter’s hand kindly and looked into her face by the light 
of the small lantern she carried. 

‘‘It is some dreadful mistake, my child,” she said. 
“But I have no course but to obey. You are Donna 
Faustina Montevarchi? ” 

“Yes — this is the Princess Sant’ Ilario.” 

“Will you come with me? I will give you the best 
room we have — it is not very like a prison.” 

“This is,” said Faustina, shuddering at the sight of 
the massive stone walls, quite as much as from the damp- 
ness of the night air. 

“ Courage, dear ! ” whispered Corona, drawing the girl’s 
slight figure close to her and arranging the mantle upon 
her shoulders. But Corona herself was uneasy as to the 
result of the ghastly adventure, and she looked anxiously 
forward into the darkness beyond the nun’s lantern. 

At last they found themselves in a small whitewashed 
chamber, so small that it was brightly lighted by the 
two wicks of a brass oil-lamp on the table. The nun 
left them alone, at Corona’s request, promising to return 
in the course of an hour. Faustina sat down upon the 
edge of the little bed, and Corona upon a chair beside 
her. Until now, the unexpected excitement of what had 
passed during the last three or four hours had sustained 
the young girl. Everything that had happened had 
seemed to be a part of a dream until she found herself 
at last in the cell of the Termini prison, abandoned by 
every one save Corona. Her courage broke down. She 
threw herself back upon the pillow and burst into tears. 
Corona did not know what to do, but tried to comfort her 
as well as she could, wondering inwardly what would 
have happened had the poor child been brought to such 
a place alone. 

“ What have I done, that such things should happen to 
me?” cried Faustina at last, sitting up and staring 
wildly at her friend. Her small white hands lay help- 

w 


822 


sant’ ilakio. 


lessly in her lap and her rich brown hair was beginning 
to be loosened and to fall upon her shoulders. 

The tears stood in Corona’s eyes. It seemed to her 
infinitely pathetic that this innocent creature should 
have been chosen as the victim to expiate so monstrous 
a crime. 

^‘It will be all cleared up in the morning,” she an- 
swered, trying to speak cheerfully or at least hopefully. 
^‘It is an abominable mistake of the prefect’s. I will 
not leave you, dear — take heart, we will talk — the nun 
will bring you something to eat — the night will soon 
pass.” 

In prison ! ” exclaimed Faustina, in a tone of horror 
and despair, not heeding what Corona said. 

“ Try and fancy it is not ” 

“And my father dead!” She seemed suddenly to 
realise that he was gone for ever. “Poor papa! poor 
pax^a ! ” she moaned. “ Oh, I did not mean to be unduti- 
ful — indeed I did not — and I can never tell you so 
now ” 

“You must not reproach yourself, darling,” said 
Corona, trying to soothe her and to draw the x)itiful pale 
face to her shoulder, while she wound her arm tenderly 
about the young girl’s waist. “ Pray for him, Faustina, 
but do not reproach yourself too much. After all, dear, 
he was unkind to you ” 

“ Oh, do not say that — he is dead! ” She lowered her 
voice almost to a whisper as she sx)oke, and an exx3res- 
sion of awe came over her features. “He is dead. 
Corona. I shall never see him again — oh, why did I 
not love him more? I am frightened when I think that • 
he is dead — who did it?” 

The question came suddenly, and Faustina started and 
shuddered. Corona pressed her to her side and smoothed 
her hair gently. She felt that she must say something, 
but she hardly expected that Faustina would understand 
reason. She gathered her energy, however, to make the 
best effort in her power. 

“ Listen to me, Faustina, ” she said, in a tone of quiet 
authority, “ and try and see all this as I see it. It is 
not right that you should reproach yourself, for you have 
had no share in your father’s death, and if you parted in 


sant’ tlario. 


323 


anger it was his fault, not yours. He is dead, and there 
is nothing for you to do but to pray that he may rest in 
peace. You have been accused unjustly of a deed which 
any one might see you were physically incapable of 
doing. You will be released from this place to-morrow 
morning, if not during the night. One thing is abso- 
lutely necessary — you must be calm and quiet, or you 
will have brain fever in a few hours. Do not think I 
am heartless, dear. A worse thing might have happened 
to you. You have been suspected by an ignorant man 
who will pay dearly for his mistake; you might have 
been suspected by those you love.” 

Corona sighed, and her voice trembled with the last 
words. To her, Faustina was suffering far more from 
the shock to her sensibilities than from any real grief. 
She knew that she had not loved her father, but the 
horror of his murder and the fright at being held account- 
able for it were almost enough to drive her mad. And 
yet she could not be suffering what Corona had suffered 
in being suspected by Giovanni, she had not that to lose 
which Corona had lost, the dominating passion of her life 
had not been suddenly burnt out in the agony of an 
hour, she was only the victim of a mistake which could 
have no consequences, which would leave no trace 
behind. But Faustina shivered and turned paler still at 
Corona’s words. 

By those I love? Ah no ! Hot by him — by them ! ” 
The blood rushed to her white face, and her hand fell on 
her friend’s shoulder. 

Corona heard and knew that the girl was thinking of 
Anastase. She wondered vaguely whether the hot- 
headed soldier artist had learned the news and what he 
would do when he found that Faustina was lodged in 
a prison. 

And yet — perhaps — oh no ! It is impossible ! ” Her 
sweet, low voice broke again, and was lost in passionate 
sobbing. 

For a long time Corona could do nothing to calm her. 
The tears might be a relief to the girl’s overwrought 
faculties, but they were most distressing to hear and see. 

^^Do you love him very much, dear?” asked Corona, 
when the paroxysm began to subside. 


324 


sant’ ilario. 


‘‘I wotild die for him, and he would die for me,’’ 
answered Faustina simply, but a happy smile shone 
through her grief that told plainly how much dearer to 
her was he who was left than he who was dead. 

Tell me about him, ” said Corona softly. “ He is a 
friend of mine ” 

“Indeed he is! You do not know how he worships 
you. I think that next to me in the world — but then, 
of course, he could not love you — besides, you are 
married.” 

Corona could not help smiling, and yet there was a 
sting in the words, of which Faustina could not dream. 
Why could not Giovanni have taken this child’s straight- 
forward, simple view, which declared such a thing 
impossible — because Corona was married. What a 
wealth of innocent belief in goodness was contained in 
that idea! The princess began to discover a strange 
fascination in finding out what Faustina felt for this 
man, whom she. Corona, had been suspected of loving. 
What could it be like to love such a man? He was good- 
looking, clever, brave, even interesting, perhaps; but to 
love him — Corona suddenly felt that interest in the 
analysis of his character which is roused in us when we 
are all at once brought, into the confidence of some one 
who can tell by experience what we should have felt 
with regard to a third person, who has come very near 
to our lives, if he or she had really become a part of our 
existence. Faustina’s present pain and sense of danger 
momentarily disappeared as she was drawn into talking 
of what absorbed her whole nature, and Corona saw that 
by leading the conversation in that direction she might 
hope to occupy the girl’s thoughts. 

Faustina seemed to forget her misfortunes in speaking 
of Gouache, and Corona listened, and encouraged her to 
go on. The strong woman who had suffered so much 
saw gradually unfolded before her a series of pictures, 
constituting a whole that was new to her. She compre- 
hended for the first time in her life the nature of an 
innocent girl’s love, and there was something in what 
she learned that softened her and brought the moisture 
into her dark eyes. She looked at the delicate young 
creature beside her, seated upon the rough bed, her 


sant’ ilario. 


325 


angelic loveliness standing out against the cold back- 
ground of the whitewashed wall. The outline seemed 
almost vaporous, as though melting into the transparency 
of the quiet air; the gentle brown eyes were at once full 
of suffering and full of love ; the soft, thick hair fell in 
disorder upon her shoulders, in that exquisite disorder 
that belongs to beautiful things in nature when they are 
set free and fall into the position which is essentially 
their OAvn; her white fingers, refined and expressive, 
held Corona’s slender olive hand, pressing it and moving 
as they touched it, with every word she spoke. Corona 
almost felt that some spiritual, half divine being had 
glided down from another world to tell her of an angel’s 
love. 

The elder woman thought of her own life and compared 
it with what she saw. Sold to a decrepit old husband 
who had worshipped her in strange, pathetic fashion of 
his own, she had spent live years in submitting to an 
affection she loathed, enduring it to the very end, and 
sacrificing every instinct of her nature in the perform- 
ance of her duty. Liberated at last, she had given her- 
self up to her love for Giovanni, in a passion of the 
strong kind that never comes in early 3^outh. She asked 
herself what had become of that passion, and whether it 
could ever be revived. In any case it was something 
wholly different from the love of which Faustina was 
speaking. She had fought against it when it came, with 
all lier might; being gone, it had left her cold and 
indifferent to all she could still command, incapable of 
even pretending to love. It had passed through her life 
as a whirlwind through a deep forest, and its track was 
like a scar. What Faustina knew, she could never have 
known, the sudden growth within her of something beau- 
tiful against which there was no need to struggle, the 
whole-hearted devotion from the first, the joy of a love 
that had risen suddenly like the dawn of a fair day, the 
unspeakable happiness of loving intensely in perfect 
innocence of the world, of giving her whole soul at once 
and for ever, unconscious that there could be anything 
else to give. 

‘‘I would die for him, and he would die for me,” 
Faustina had said, knowing that her words were true. 


826 


sant’ ilario. 


Corona would die for Giovanni now, no doubt, but not 
because she loved him any longer. She would sacrifice 
herself for what had been, for the memory of it, for the 
bitterness of having lost it and of feeling that it could 
not return. That was a state very different from Faus- 
tina’s; it was pain, not happiness, despair, not joy, 
emptiness, not fulness. Her eyes grew sad, and she 
sighed bitterly as though oppressed by a burden from 
which she could not escape. Faustina’s future seemed 
to her to be like a beautiful vision among the clouds of 
sunrise; her own like the reflection of a mournful scene 
in a dark pool of stagnant water. The sorrow of her 
life rose in her eyes, until the young girl saw it and 
suddenly ceased speaking. It was like a reproach to 
her, for her young nature had already begun to forget its 
trouble in the sweetness of its own dream. Corona under- 
stood the sudden silence, and her expression changed, 
for she felt that if she dwelt upon what was nearest to 
her heart she could give but poor consolation. 

“You are sad,” said Faustina. “It is not for me — 
what is it?” 

“Ko. It is not for you, dear child.” 

Corona looked at the young girl for a moment and tried 
to smile. Then she rose from the chair and turned 
away, pretending to trim the brass oil-lamp with the 
little metal snuffers that hung from it by a chain. The 
tears blinded her. She rested her hands upon the table 
and bent her head. Faustina watched her in surprise, 
tlien slipped from her place on the bed and stood beside 
her, looking up tenderly into the sad dark eyes from 
which the crystal drops welled up and trickled down, 
falling upon the rough deal boards. 

“What is it, dear?” asked the young girl. “Will 
you not tell me ! ” 

Corona turned and threw her arms round her, pressing 
her to her breast, almost passionately. Faustina did not 
understand what was happening. 

“ I never saw you cry before ! ” she exclaimed in inno- 
cent astonishment, as she tried to brush away the tears 
from her friend’s face. 

“Ah Faustina! There are worse things in the world 
than you are suffering, child I ” 


sant’ ilario. 


327 


Then she made a great effort and overcame the emo- 
tion that had taken possession of her. She was ashamed 
to have played such a part when she had come to the 
jplace to give comfort to another. 

^‘It is nothing,’’ she said, after a moment’s pause. “I 
think I am nervous — at least, I am very foolish to let 
myself cry when I ought to be taking care of you.” 

A long silence followed, which was broken at last by 
the nun, who entered the room, bringing such poor food 
as the place afforded. She repeated her assurance that 
Faustina’s arrest was the result of a mistake, and that 
she would be certainly liberated in the morning. Then, 
seeing that the two friends appeared to be preoccupied, 
she bade them good-night and went away. 

It was the longest night Corona remembered to have 
ever passed. For a long time they talked a little, and at 
length Faustina fell asleep, exhausted by all she had 
suffered, while Corona sat beside her, watching her 
regular breathing and envying her ability to rest. She 
herself could not close her eyes, though she could not 
explain her wakefulness. At last she lay down upon the 
other bed and tried to forget herself. After many hours 
she lost consciousness for a time, and then awoke sud- 
denly, half stifled by the sickening smell of the lamp 
which had gone out, filling the narrow room with the 
odour of burning oil. It was quite dark, and the pro- 
found silence was broken only by the sound of Faustina’s 
evenly-drawn breath. The poor child was too weary to 
be roused by the fumes tha,t had disturbed Corona’s rest. 
But Corona rose and groped her way to the window, 
which she opened as noiselessly as she could. Heavy 
iron bars were built into the wall upon the outside, and 
she grasped the cold iron with a sense of relief as she 
looked out at the quiet stars, and tried to distinguish 
the trees which, as she knew, were planted on the other 
side of the desolate grass-grown square, along the old 
wall that stood there, at that time, like a fortification be- 
tween the Termini and the distant city. Below the win- 
dow the sentry tramped slowly up and down in his beat, 
his steps alone breaking the intense stillness of the win- 
ter night. Corona realised that she was in a prison. 
There was something in the discomfort which was not 


328 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


repugnant to her, as she held the grating in her fingers 
and let the cold air blow upon her face. 

After all, she thought, her life would seem much the 
same in such a place, in a convent, perhaps, where she 
could be alone all day, all night, for ever. She could not 
be more unhappy behind those bars than she had often 
been in the magnificent palaces in which her existence 
had been chiefly passed. Nothing gave her pleasure, 
nothing interested her, nothing had the power to distract 
her mind from the aching misery that beset it. She said 
to herself a hundred times a day that such apathy was 
unworthy of her, and she blamed herself when she found 
that even the loss of the great Saracinesca suit left her 
indifferent. She did no good to herself and none to any 
one else, so far as she could see, unless it were good to 
allow Giovanni to love her, now that she no longer felt 
a thrill of pleasure at his coming nor at the sound of his 
voice. At least she had been honest. She could say that, 
for she had not deceived him. She had forgiven him, 
but was it her fault if he had destroyed that which he 
now most desired? Was it her fault that forgiveness did 
not mean love? Her suffering was not the selfish pain 
of wounded vanity, for Giovanni’s despair would have 
healed such a wound by showing her the strength of his 
passion. There was no resentment in her heart, either, 
for she longed to love him. But even the habit of loving 
was gone, broken away and forgotten in the sharp agony 
of an hour. She had done her best to bring it back, she 
had tried to repeat i)hrases that had once come from her 
heart with the conviction of great joy, each time they 
had been spoken. But the words were dead and meant 
nothing, or if they had a meaning they told her of the 
change in herself. She was willing to argue against it, 
to say again and again that she had no right to be so 
changed, that there had been enough to make any man 
suspicious, that she would have despised him had he 
overlooked such convincing evidence. Could a man love 
truly and not have some jealousy in his nature? Could a 
man have such overwhelming proof given him of guilt in 
the woman he adored and yet show nothing, any more 
than if she had been a stranger? But the argument was 
not satisfactory, nor conclusive. If human ills could 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


329 


be healed by the use of logic, there would long since 
have been no unhappiness left in the world. Is there 
anything easier than to deceive one’s self when one 
wishes to be deceived? Nothing, surely, provided that 
the inner reality of ourselves which we call our hearts 
consents to the deception. But if it will not consent, 
then there is no help in all the logic that has been lav- 
islied upon the philosophy of a dozen ages. 

Her slender fingers tightened upon the freezing bars, 
and once more, in the silent night, her tears flowed down 
as she looked up at the stars through the prison window. 
The new condition of her life sought an expression she 
had hitherto considered as weak and despicable, and 
against which she struggled even now. There was no 
relief in weeping, it brought her no sense of rest, no 
respite from the dull consciousness of her situation; and 
yet she could not restrain the drops that fell so fast upon 
her hands. She suffered always, without any intermit- 
tence, as people do who have little imagination, with few 
but strong passions and a constant nature. There are 
men and women whose active fancy is able to lend a 
romantic beauty to misfortune, which gives some pleas- 
ure even to themselves, or who can obtain some satisfac- 
tion, if they are poets, by expressing their pain in grand 
or tender language. There are others to whom sorrow is 
but a reality, for which all expression seems inadequate. 

Corona was such a woman, too strong to suffer little, 
too unimaginative to suffer poetically. There are those 
who might say that she exaggerated the gravity of the 
position, that, since Giovanni had always been faithful 
to her, had acknowledged his error and repented of it so 
sincerely, there was no reason why she should not love 
him as before. The answer is very simple. The highest 
kind of love not only implies the highest trust in the 
person loved, but demands it in return; the two condi- 
tions are as necessary to each other as body and soul, so 
that if one is removed from the other, the whole love 
dies. Our relations with our fellow-creatures are recip- 
rocal in effect, whatever morality may require in theory, 
from the commonest intercourse between mere acquaint- 
ances to the bond between man and wife. An honest 
man will always hesitate to believe another unless he 


330 


sant’ ilario. 


himself is believed. Humanity gives little, on the whole, 
unless it expects a return ; still less will men continue to 
give when their gifts have been denounced to them as 
false, no matter what apology is offered after the mistake 
has been discovered. Corona was very human, and being 
outwardly cold, she was inwardly more sensitive to sus- 
picion than very oxpansive women can ever be. With 
women who express very readily what they feel, the 
expression often assumes such importance as to deceive 
them into believing their passions to be stronger than 
they are. Corona had given all, love, devotion, faithful- 
ness, and yet, because appearances had been against 
her, Giovanni had doubted her. He had cut the plant 
down at the very root, and she had nothing more to 
give. 

Faustina moved in her sleep. Corona softly closed the 
window and once more lay down to rest. The hours 
seemed endless as she listened for the bells. At last the 
little room grew gray and she could distinguish the fur- 
niture in the gloom. Then all at once the door opened, 
and the nun entered, bearing her little lantern and peer- 
ing over it to try and see whether the occupants of the 
chamber were awake. In the shadow behind her Corona 
could distinguish the figure of a man. 

^^The prince is here,^’ said the sister in a low voice, as 
she saw that Corona’s eyes were open. The latter glanced 
at Faustina, whose childlike sleep was not interrupted. 
She slipped from the bed and went out into the corridor. 

The nun would have led the two down to the parlour, 
but Corona would not go so far from Faustina. At their 
request she opened an empty cell a few steps farther on, 
and left Giovanni and his wife alone in the gray dawn. 
Corona looked eagerly into his eyes for some news con- 
cerning the young giii. He took her hand and kissed it. 

, My darling — that you should have spent the night 
in such a place as this ! ” he exclaimed. 

“Never mind me. Is Faustina at liberty? Did you 
see the cardinal?” 

“I saw him.” Giovanni shook his head. 

“ And do you mean to say that he would not give the 
order at once?” 

“ Nothing would induce him to give it. The prefect got 


sant’ ilakio. 


331 


there before me, and I was kept waiting half an hour 
while they talked the matter over. The cardinal declared 
to me that he knew there had been an enmity between 
Faustina and her father concerning her love for Gou- 
ache ’’ 

“ Her love for Gouache ! ’’ repeated Corona slowly, 
looking into his eyes. She could not help it. Giovanni 
turned pale and looked away as he continued. 

“Yes, and he said that the evidence was very strong, 
since no one had been known to enter the house, and the 
servants were clearly innocent — not one of them be- 
trayed the slightest embarrassment.’^ 

“In other words, he believes that Faustina actually 
did it?” 

“It looks like it,” said Giovanni in a low voice. 

“ Giovanni ! ” she seized his arm. “ Do you believe it, 
too?” 

“I will believe whatever you tell me.” 

“ She is as innocent as I ! ” cried Corona, her eyes blaz- 
ing with indignation. Giovanni understood more from 
the words than she meant to convey. 

“Will you never forgive?” he asked sadly. 

“ I did not mean that — I meant Faustina. Giovanni 
— you must get her away from here. You can, if you 
wiil.” 

“ I will do much for you, ” he answered quietly. 

“It is not for me. It is for an unfortunate child who 
is the victim of a horrible mistake. I have comforted 
her by promising that she should be free this morning. 
She will go mad if she is kept here.” 

“ Whatever I do, I do for you, and I will do nothing 
for any one else. For you or for no one, but I must know 
that it is really for you.” 

Corona understood and turned away. It was broad 
daylight now, as she looked through the grating of the 
window, watching the people who passed, without seeing 
them. 

“ What is Faustina Montevarchi to me, compared with 
your love?” Giovanni asked. 

Something in the tone of his voice made her look at 
him. She saw the intensity of his feeling in his eyes, 
and she wondered that he should try to tempt her to love 


332 


sant’ ilario. 


liim with such an insignificant bribe — with the hope of 
liberating the young girl. She did not understand that 
he was growing desperate. Had she known what was in 
his mind she might have made a supreme effort to deceive 
herself into the belief that he was still to her what he 
had been so long. But she did not know. 

“ For the sake of her innocence, Giovanni ! ” she ex- 
claimed. “ Can you let a child like that suffer so? I am 
sure, if you really would you could manage it, with your 
influence. Do you not see that I am suffering too, for 
the girl’s sake?” 

Will you say that it is for your sake? ” 

‘‘ For my sake — if you will, ” she cried almost impa- 
tiently. 

“For your sake, then,” he answered. “Kemember 
that it is for you. Corona.” 

Before she could answer, he had left the room, with- 
out another word, without so much as touching her hand. 
Corona gazed sadly at the open door, and then returned 
to Faustina. 

An hour later the nun entered the cell, with a bright 
smile on her face. 

“ Your carriage is waiting for you — for you both,” she 
said, addressing the princess. “ Donna Faustina is free 
to return to her mother.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

When Giovanni Saracinesca had visited Cardinal An- 
tonelli on the previous evening, he had been as firmly 
persuaded that Faustina was innocent, as Corona herself, 
and was at first very much astonished by the view the 
great man took of the matter. But as the latter devel- 
oped the case, the girl’s guilt no longer seemed impos- 
sible, or even improbable. The total absence of any 
ostensible incentive to the murder gave Faustina’s quar- 
rel with her father a very great importance, which was 
further heightened by the nature of the evidence. There 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


333 


had been high words, in the course of which the f rincess 
Montevarchi had left the room, leaving her daughter 
alone with the old inan^ No one had seen him alive 
after that moment, and he had been found dead, evidently 
strangled with her handkerchief. The fact that Faustina 
had a bruise on her arm and a cut on her lip pointed to 
the conclusion that a desperate struggle had taken place. 
The cardinal argued that, although she might not have 
had the strength to do the deed if the contest had begun 
when both were on their feet, it was by no means impos- 
sible that so old a man might have been overcome by a 
young and vigorous girl, if she had attacked him when 
he was in his chair, and was prevented from rising by 
the table before him. As for the monstrosity of the act, 
the cardinal merely smiled when Giovanni alluded to it. 
Had not fathers been murdered by their children before, 
and in Nome? The argument had additional weight, 
when Giovanni remembered Faustina’s wild behaviour 
on the night of the insurrection. A girl who was capable 
tof following a soldier into action, and who had spent 
hours in searching for him after such an appalling disas- 
ter as the explosion of the Serristori barracks, might well 
be subject to fits of desperate anger, and it was by no 
means far from likely, if her father had struck her in the 
face from his place at the table, that she should have laid 
violent hands upon him, seizing him by the throat and 
strangling him with her handkerchief. Her coolness 
afterwards might be only a part of her odd nature, for 
she was undoubtedly eccentric. She might be mad, said 
the cardinal, shaking his head, but there was every prob- 
ability that she was guilty. In those days there was 
no appeal from the statesman’s decisions in such matters. 
Faustina would remain a prisoner until she could be 
tried for the crime. 

His Eminence was an early riser, and was not alto- 
gether surprised that Giovanni should come to him at 
such an hour, especially as he knew that the Princess 
Sant’ Ilario had spent the night with Faustina in the 
Termini prison. He was altogether taken aback, how- 
ever, by Giovanni’s manner, and by the communication 
he made. 

X had the honour of telling your Eminence last night. 


334 


sant’ ilakio. 


that Donna Eaustina Montevarchi was innocent, ” began 
Giovanni, who refused the offer of a seat. I trusted 
that she might be liberated immediately, but you have 
determined otherwise. I am not willing that an innocent 
person should suffer unjustly. I have come, therefore, 
to surrender myself to justice in this case.^^ 

The cardinal stared, and an expression of unmitigated 
astonishment appeared upon his delicate olive features, 
while his nervous hands grasped the arms of his chair. 

You! ” he cried. 

‘‘I, your Eminence. I will explain myself. Yester- 
day the courts delivered their verdict, declaring that my 
cousin San Giacinto is Prince Saracinesca, instead of my 
father, and transferring to him all our hereditary prop- 
erty. The man who found out that there was a case 
against us, and caused it to be brought to trial, was 
Prince Montevarchi. You may perhaps understand my 
resentment against him. If you recollect the evidence 
which was detailed to you last night you will see that it 
was quite possible for me to go to him without being 
observed. The door chanced to be open, and there was 
no one in the hall. I am perfectly acquainted with the 
house. Several hours elapsed between the time when 
Donna Faustina left her father and the moment when he 
was found dead in his chair. You can understand how 
I could enter the room unseen, how angry words naturally 
must have arisen between us, and how, losing my self- 
control, I could have picked up Donna Faustina’s hand- 
kerchief which, as she says, lay upon the floor, and 
knotted it effectually round the old man’s neck. What 
could he do in my hands? The study is far from the 
other rooms the family inhabit, and is near the hall. 
To go quietly out would not have been a difficult matter 
for any one who knew the house. Your Eminence knows 
as well as I the shallowness of circumstantial evidence.” 

‘‘And do you tell me, calmly, like this, tliat you 
murdered a helpless old man out of revenge ? ” asked the 
cardinal, half-indignantly, half-incredulously. 

“Would I surrender myself as the murderer, for a 
caprice?” inquired Giovanni, who was very pale. 

The cardinal looked at him and was silent for a few 
moments. He was puzzled by what he heard, and yet his 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


335 


common sense told him that he had no course but to 
liberate Faustina and send Giovanni to prison. He felt, 
too, that he ought to experience an instinctive repulsion 
for the man before him, who, by his own showing, had 
been guilty of such a horrible crime; but he was con- 
scious of no such sensation. He was a man of exceed- 
ingly quick and true intuitions, who judged the persons 
with whom he had business very accurately. There was 
a lack of correspondence between his intelligence and his 
feelings which roused his curiosity. 

‘‘You have told me a very strange story,” he said. 

“Less strange than the one your Eminence has be- 
lieved since last night,” returned Giovanni calmly. 

“I do not know. It is more easy for me to believe 
that the girl was momentarily out of her mind than that 
you, whom I have known all my life, should have done 
such a thing. Besides, in telling me your story, you 
have never once positively asserted that you did it. You 
have only explained that it would have been possible for a 
man so disposed to accomplish the murder unsuspected.” 

“ Is a man obliged to incriminate himself directly? It 
seems to me that in giving myself up I have done all 
that a man’s conscience can possibly require — outside 
of the confessional. I shall be tried, and my lawyer will 
do what he can to obtain my acquittal.” 

“ That is poor logic. Whether you confess or not, you 
have accused yourself in a way that must tell against 
you very strongly. You really leave me no choice.” 

“Your Eminence has only to do what I request, to 
liberate Donna Faustina and to send me to prison.” 

“You are a very strange man,” said the cardinal in a 
musing tone, as he leaned back in his chair and scruti- 
nised Giovanni’s pale, impenetrable face. 

“I am a desperate man, that is all.” 

“Will you give me your word of honour that Faustina 
Montevarchi is innocent?” 

“Yes,” answered Giovanni without the slightest hesi- 
tation, and meeting the gaze of the cardinal’s bright 
eyes unflinchingly. 

The latter paused a moment, and then turned in his 
chair, and taking a piece of paper wrote a few words 
upon it. Then he rang a little hand-bell that stood 


336 sant’ ilahio. 

beside him. His servant entered, as be was folding and 
sealing the note. 

To the Termini prison, ’’ he said. 

The messenger had better take my carriage, ’’ observed 
Giovanni. “1 shall not need it again.” 

“Take Prince Sant’ Ilario’s carriage,” added the car- 
dinal, and the man left the room. “And now,” he con- 
tinued, “ will you be good enough to tell me what I am 
to do with you? ” 

“ Send me to the Carceri Nuove, or to any convenient 
place.” 

“ I will do nothing that can be an injury to you here- 
after,” answered the statesman. “Something tells me 
that you have had nothing to do with this dreadful 
murder. But you must know that though you may 
deceive me — I am not omniscient — I will not tolerate 
any contempt of the ways of justice. You have surren- 
dered yourself as the criminal, and I intend to take you 
at your word.” 

“ I ask for nothing else. Put me where you please, do 
what you please with me. It matters very little.” 

“You act like a man who has had an unfortunate love 
affair,” remarked the cardinal. “It is true that you 
have just lost your fortune, and that may account for it. 
But I repeat that, whatever your motives may be, you 
shall not trifle with the law. You wish to be a prisoner. 
The law will oblige you so far as to comply with your 
request. I warn you that, after this, you can only obtain 
your freedom through a proper trial. ” 

“ Pray let it be so. My motives can be of no impor- 
tance. The law shall judge the facts and give its ver- 
dict.” 

“The law will certainly do so. In the meantime, 
you will spend the day in a room of my apartments, and 
this evening, when it is dark, you will be quietly trans- 
ferred to a place of safety — and secrecy. If the real 
murderer is ever found, I do not wish your life to have 
been ruined by such a piece of folly as I believe you are 
committing. You say you are a desperate man, and you 
are acting, I think, as though you were. Your family 
affairs may have led to this state, but they do not con- 
cern me. You will, however, be good enough to swear. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 337 

here, solemnly, laying your hand upon this book, that 
you will not attempt to destroy yourself.” 

swear,” said Giovanni, touching the volume which 
the cardinal presented to him. 

‘‘Very good. Now follow me, if you please, to the 
room where you must spend the day.” 

Giovanni found himself in a small chamber which con- 
tained only a large writing-table and a couple of chairs, 
and which seemed to have been destined for some sort of 
office. The cardinal closed the door, and Giovanni heard 
him turn the key and remove it from the lock. Then, 
for the first time, he reflected upon what he had done. 
He had spoken the truth when he had said that he was 
desperate. No other word could describe his state. A 
sort of madness had taken possession of him while he 
was talking with Corona, and he was still under its 
influence. There had been something in her manner 
which had seemed to imply that he was not doing his 
best to liberate Faustina, and indeed, when he remem- 
bered that the girl’s innocence was by no means clear to 
him, he ought not to have been surprised at Corona’s 
imputation. And yet, he had now pledged his word to the 
cardinal that Faustina had not done the deed. Corona’s 
unwillingness to admit that it was for her own sake she 
asked his help had driven him nearly out of his mind, 
and when she had at last said it, even reluctantly, he 
had immediately resolved to show her what he was will- 
ing to do for one word of hers when she chose to speak 
it. He had from that moment but one thought, to 
free Faustina at any cost, and no plan suggested itself 
to him but to surrender himself in the girl’s place. As 
a matter of fact, he could not have accomplished his pur- 
pose so quickly or surely in any other way, and perhaps 
he could not have otherwise accomplished it at all. It 
had been quite clear to him from the first that the cardi- 
nal was prejudiced against Faustina, owing, no doubt, to 
the representations of the prefect of police. Giovanni 
had carried the evidence against her clearly in his mind, 
and as soon as he thought of the expedient he saw how it 
would have been quite possible for himself, or for any 
other man who knew the house, to commit the murder. 
As for the detail concerning the doors being open, there 


338 


sant’ ilario. 


was nothing improbable in it, seeing that there were 
many servants in the establishment, and that each one 
would suspect and accuse one of his companions of the 
carelessness. Nothing was easier than to construct the 
story, and he had supposed that nothing would be simpler 
than to make the cardinal believe it. He had been sur- 
prised to find himself mistaken upon this point, but he 
felt a thrill of triumph that more than repaid him for 
what he had done, when he saw the messenger leave the 
room with the order to liberate Faustina. Corona had 
spoken, had asked him to do a hard thing for her sake, 
and her caprice was satisfied, it mattered little at what 
cost. She had given him an opportunity of showing 
what he would do for her, and that opportunity had not 
been thrown away. 

But as he sat alone in the little room the cardinal had 
assigned to him, he began to realise the magnitude of what 
he had been doing, and to see how his actions would be 
judged by others. He had surrendered himself as a 
murderer, and was to be treated as one. When the time 
came for the trial, might it not happen with him as with 
many another innocent man who has put himself into a 
false position? Might he not be condemned? Nothing 
that he could say hereafter could remove the impression 
created by his giving himself up to justice. Any denial 
hereafter would be supposed to proceed from fear and 
not from innocence. And if he were condemned, what 
would become of Corona, of his father, of little Orsino? 
He shuddered at the thought. 

What, he asked himself, would be the defence? Yes- 
terday afternoon he had been out of the house during 
several hours, and had walked alone, he hardly remem- 
bered where. Since the crisis in his life which had 
separated him from Corona in fact, if not in appearance, 
he often walked alone, wandering aimlessly through the 
streets. Would any of his acquaintance come forward 
and swear to having seen him at the time Montevarchi 
was murdered? Probably not. And if not, how could it 
be proved, in the face of his own statement to the car- 
dinal, that he might not have gone to the palace, seeking 
an opportunity of expending his wrath on the old prince, 
that he might not have lost his self-control in a fit of 


sant’ ilario. 


839 


anger and strangled the old man as he sat in his chair? 
As he himself liad said, there was far more reason to 
believe that the Saracinesca had killed Monte varchi out 
of revenge, than that a girl like Faustina should have 
strangled her own father because he had interfered in her 
love affairs. If the judges took this view of the case, it 
was clear that Giovanni would have little chance of an 
acquittal. The thing looked so possible that even Corona 
might believe it — even Corona, for whose sake he had 
rushed madly into such desperate danger. 

And to-day she would not see him ; very possibly she 
would not know where he was. And to-morrow? And 
the next day? And all the days after that? He sup- 
posed that he would be allowed to write to her, perhaps 
to see her, but it would be hard to explain his position. 
She did not love him any longer, and she would not 
understand. He wondered how much she would care, if 
she really cared at all, beyond a discreet anxiety for his 
safety. She would certainly not comprehend a love like 
his, which had chosen such a sacrifice, rather than allow 
her wish to remain ungratified. How could she, since 
she did not love him? And yet, it was imperatively 
necessary that she should be informed of what had hap- 
pened. She might otherwise suppose, naturally enough, 
that some accident had befallen him, and she would in 
that case apply to the police, perhaps to the cardinal 
himself, to find out where he was. Such a contingency 
must be prevented, by some means, before night. Until 
then, she would not be frightened by his absence. 
There would be time, perhaps, when he was removed to 
the prison — to the place of safety and secrecy, of whicli 
the cardinal had spoken, and which in all probability 
was the Holy Office. No questions were asked there. 

There were writing materials on the broad table, and 
Giovanni began a letter to his wife. After a few min- 
utes, however, he stopped, for he saw from what he had 
written that he was in no condition to attempt such a 
task. The words came quickly and fluently, but they 
expressed what he had no intention of telling Corona 
again. His love for her was still uppermost in his mind, 
and instead of trying to explain what had occurred, he 
found himself setting down phrases that told of nothing 


340 


sant’ ilaeio. 


blit a mad passion. The thought of her cold face when 
she should read the lines arrested his hand, and he threw 
down the pen impatiently, and returned to his medita- 
tions for a while. What he wanted to do was to tell her 
in the fewest possible words that he was alive and well. 
What else should he tell her? The statement would 
allay any anxiety she might feel, and his absence would 
doubtless be a relief to her. The thought was bitter, 
but he knew that nothing exasperates a woman like the 
constant presence of a man she has loved, who loves her 
more than ever, and for whom she no longer feels any- 
thing. At last he took another sheet of paper and tried 
again. 

“ Dear Corona — When you get this, Faustina will be at liberty, 
according to your wish. Do not be anxious if you do not see me 
for a few days, as I am called away on urgent business. Tell my 
father, and any of our friends who ask about me, that I am at 
Saracinesca, superintending the removal of such effects as are not 
to go to San Giacinto. I will let you know when I am coming 
back — Your affectionate Giovanni.” 

He read the note over twice, and then folded it, 
addressing it to his wife. His face expressed the most 
profound dejection when he had finished his task, and 
for a long time he leaned back in his chair, gazing at the 
morning sunlight that slowly crept across the floor, while 
his hands lay folded passively upon the table. The end 
of his love seemed very bitter as he thought of the words 
he had written. A few weeks ago to leave Corona thus 
unexpectedly would have caused her the greatest pain. 
Now, he felt that he need say nothing, that it would be 
useless to say anything, more than he had said. It was 
nothing to her, whether he stayed in Home or went to 
the ends of the earth; indeed, he suspected that she 
would be glad to be left alone — unless she should dis- 
cover why he had gone, and whither. This last consid- 
eration recalled to him his situation, and for a moment 
he was horrified at his own rashness. But the thought 
did not hold him long, aud presently he asked himself 
apathetically what it could matter in the end. The 
hours passed slowly, and still he sat motionless by the 
table, the folded letter lying before him. 

The cardinal had scarcely returned to his study when 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


341 


a second card was brought to him. The gentleman, said 
the servant, had assured him that his Eminence would 
receive him, as he had important information to give 
concerning the murder of Prince Montevarchi. The 
cardinal could not repress a smile as he read the name of 
Anastase Gouache. 

The 3^oung man entered the room, and advanced in 
obedience to the cardinal’s friendly gesture. He was as 
pale as death, and his soft dark eyes had an expression 
of despair in them such as the great man had rarely 
seen. For the rest, he wore his uniform, and was as 
carefully dressed as usual. 

“ Your Eminence has doubtless heard of this dreadful 
murder?” began Gouache, forgetting all formality in the 
extremity of his excitement. 

“Yes,” said the cardinal, sitting down. “You have 
something to communicate concerning it, I understand.” 

“Donna Faustina Montevarchi has been charged with 
the crime, and is in- the prison of the Termini,” answered 
the Zouave, speaking hurriedly. “ I am here to ask your 
Eminence to order her release without delay ” 

“On what grounds?” inquired the statesman, raising 
his eyebrows a little as though surprised by the way in 
which the request was made. 

“ Because she is innocent, because her arrest was due 
to the mistake of the prefect of police — the evidence 
was against her, but it was absurd to suppose that she 
could have done it ” 

“The prefect of police received my approval. Have 
you any means of showing that she is innocent?” 

“Showing it?” repeated Gouache, who looked dazed 
for a moment, but recovered himself immediately, turn- 
ing white to the lips. “What could be easier?” he 
exclaimed. “The murderer is before you — I saw the 
prince, I asked him for his daughter’s hand in marriage, 
he insulted me. I left the room, but I returned soon 
afterwards. I found him alone^ and I killed him — I do 
not know how I did it ” 

“With Donna Faustina’s handkerchief,” suggested the 
cardinal. “'Perhaps you do not remember that it was 
lying on the floor and that you picked it up and knotted 
it ” 


342 


sant’ ilario. 


“Yes, yes! E-omid liis neck,” cried Gouache ner- 
vously. “ I remember. But I saw red, everything swam, 
the details are gone. Here I am — your Eminence’s 
prisoner — I implore you to send the order at once 1 ” 

The cardinal had hitherto maintained a grave expres- 
sion. Ilis features suddenly relaxed and he put out his 
hand. 

“ My dear Monsieur Gouache, I like you exceedingly, ” 
he said. “You are a man of heart.” 

“ I do not understand ” Anastase was very much 

bewildered, but he saw that his plan for freeing Faustina 
was on the point of failure. 

“I appreciate your motives,” continued the statesman. 
“You love the young lady to distraction, she is arrested 
on a capital charge, jmu conceive the idea of presenting 
yourself as the murderer in her place ” 

“ But I assure your Eminence, I swear ” 

“No,” interrupted the other, raising his hand. “Do 
not swear. You are incapable of such a crime. Besides, 
Donna Faustina is already at liberty, and the author of 
the deed has already confessed his guilt.” 

Anastase staggered against the projecting shelf of the 
bookcase. The blood rushed to his face and for a 
moment he was almost unconscious of where he was. 
The cardinal’s voice recalled him to himself. 

“ If you doubt what I tell you, you need only go to the 
Palazzo Montevarchi and inquire. Donna Faustina will 
return with the Princess Sant’ Ilario. I am sorry that 
circumstances prevent me from showing you the man 
who has confessed the crime. He is in my apartments 
at the present moment, separated from us only by two 
or three rooms.” 

“His name. Eminence?” asked Gouache, whose whole 
nature seemed to have changed in a moment. 

“ Ah, his name must for the present remain a secret 
in my keeping, unless, indeed, you have reason to 
believe that some one else did the murder. Have you 
no suspicions? You know the family intimately, it 
seems. You would probably have heard the matter men- 
tioned, if the deceased prince had been concerned in any 
quarrel — in any transaction which might have made 
him an object of hatred to any one we know. Do you 


sant’ ilario. 


343 


recall anything of the kind? Sit down, Monsieur Gou- 
ache. You are acquitted, you see. Instead of being a 
murderer you are the good friend who once painted my 
portrait in this very room. Do you remember our charm- 
ing conversations about Christianity and the universal 
republic?’’ 

“I shall always remember your Eminence’s kindness,” 
answered Gouache, seating himself and trying to speak 
as quietly as possible. His nervous nature was very 
much unsettled by what had occurred. He had come 
determined- that Faustina should be liberated at any cost, 
overcome by the horror of her situation, ready to lay down 
his life for her in the sincerity of his devotion. His 
conduct had been much more rational than Giovanni’s. 
He had nothing to lose but himself, no relations to be 
disgraced by his condemnation, none to suffer by his loss. 
He had only to sacrifice himself to set free for ever the 
woman he loved, and he had not hesitated a moment in 
the accomplishment of his purpose. But the revulsion 
of feeling, when he discovered that Faustina was already 
known to be innocent, and that there was no need for his 
intervention, was almost more than he could bear. The 
tears of joy stood in his eyes while he tried to be calm. 

“ Have you any suspicions ? ” asked the cardinal again, 
in his gentle voice. 

“ Hone, Eminence. The only thing approaching to a 
quarrel, of which I have heard, is the suit about the title 
of the Saracinesca. But of course that can have nothing 
to do with the matter. It was decided yesterday without 
opposition.” 

‘Ht could have nothing to do with the murder, you 
think? ” inquired the statesman with an air of interest. 

‘‘Ho. How could it? ” Gouache laughed at the idea. 
“ The Saracinesca could not murder their enemies as they 
used to do five hundred years ago. Besides, your Emi- 
nence has got the murderer and must be able to guess 
better than I what were the incentives to the crime.” 

“ That does not follow, my friend. . A man who con- 
fesses 'a misdeed is not bound to incriminate any one 
else, and a man whose conscience is sensitive enough to 
make him surrender himself naturally assumes the blame. 
He suffers remorse, and does not attempt any defence. 


344 


sant’ ilario. 


excepting such as you yourself just now gave me, when 
you said that the prince had insulted you. Enough to 
give a semblance of truth to the story. By the bye, is 
that true ? ” 

‘‘It is and it is not,” answered Gouache, blushing a 
little. “ The poor man, when I began to explain my posi- 
tion, thought — how shall I say? He thought I wanted 
to sell him a picture. It was not his fault.” 

“ Poor man ! ” sighed the cardinal. “ He had not much 
tact. And so. Monsieur Gouache, you think that the 
great Saracinesca suit has had nothing to do with the 
murder? ” 

“ It seems to me impossible. It looks rather as though 
he had been murdered by a servant, out of spite. It is 
hard to believe that any one not belonging to the house 
could have done it.” 

“ I think the public will agree with you. I will occupy 
myself with the matter. Perhaps I have got the man 
safe in that room, but who knows? If you had come 
first, you might have gone to the Carceri Nuove instead 
of him. After all, he may be in love too.” 

The cardinal smiled, but Gouache started at the sugges- 
tion, as though it hurt him. 

“ I doubt that, ” he said quickly. 

“ So do I. It would be a strange coincidence, if two 
innocent men had accused themselves of the same crime, 
out of love, within twenty-four hours of its being com- 
mitted. But now that you are calm — yes, you were 
beside yourself with excitement — I must tell you that 
you have done a very rash thing indeed. If I had not 
chanced to be a friend of yours, what would have become 
of you? I cannot help liking your courage and devotion 
— you have shown it in sterner matters, and in the face 
of the enemy — but you might have destroyed yourself. 
That would have been a great sin.” 

“ Is there no case in which a man may destroy himself 
deliberately? ” 

“You speak of suicide? It was almost that you con- 
templated. No. The church teaches that a man who 
takes his own life goes straight to hell. So does Moham- 
med, for that matter.” 

“In any case?” 


sant’ ilario. 


345 


“In any case. It is a mortal sin.” 

“But,” objected Gouaclie, “let us suppose me a very 
bad man, exercising a destroying influence on many 
other people. Suppose, in short, for the sake of argu- 
ment, that my life caused others to lose their own souls, 
and that by killing myself I knew that they would all 
become good again. Suppose then, that I suddenly re- 
pented and that there was no way of saving these people 
but by my own suicide. Would it not be more honoura- 
ble in me to say, ‘Very well, I will submit to damnation 
rather than send all those others to eternal flames?’ 
Should I not be justified in blowing out my brains?” 

The cardinal did not know whether to smile or to look 
grave. He was neither a priest nor a theologian, but a 
statesman. 

“ My dear friend, ” he answered at last. “The inge- 
nuity of your suppositions passes belief. I can only say 
that, when you find yourself in such a bad case as you 
describe, I will submit the matter for you to the Holy 
Father himself. But I would strongly advise you to 
avoid the situation if you possibly can.” 

Gouache took his leave with a light heart, little guess- 
ing as he descended the great marble staircase that Gio- 
vanni Saracinesca was the prisoner of whom the cardinal 
had spoken so mysteriously, still less that he, too, had 
falsely accused himself of having killed poor old Monte- 
varchi. He wondered, as he walked rapidly along the 
streets in the bright morning sunshine, who the man was, 
and why he had done such a thing, but his thoughts were 
really with Faustina, and he longed to see her and to hear 
from her own lips the true version of what had hap- 
pened. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Arnoldo Meschini was fully conscious of what he had 
done when he softly closed the door of the study behind 
him and returned to the library; but although he knew 
and realised that he had murdered his employer, he could 


346 


sant’ ilakio. 


not explain the act to himself. His temples throbbed 
painfully and there was a bright red spot in each of his 
sallow cheeks. He shuffled about from one bookcase to 
another, and his hands trembled violently as he touched 
the big volumes. Now and then he glanced towards one 
or the other of the doors expecting at every moment that 
some one would enter to tell him the news, if indeed any 
one 'at such a time should chance to remember the exist- 
ence of the humble librarian. His brain was on fire 
and seemed to burn the sockets of his eyes. And yet the 
time passed, and no one came. The suspense grew to be 
unbearable, and he felt that he would do anything to es- 
cai3e from it. He went to the door and laid his hand 
upon the latch. 

For an instant the flush disappeared from his cheeks, 
as a great fear took possession of him. He was not able 
to face the sight of Montevarchi^s body lying across that 
table in the silent study. His hand fell to his side and 
he almost ran to the other side of the library; then, as 
though ashamed of his weakness he came back slowly 
and listened at the door. It was scarcely possible that 
any distant echo could reach his ears, if the household 
had been already roused, for the passage was long and 
tortuous, interrupted by other doors and by a winding 
staircase. But in his present state he fancied that his 
senses must be preternaturally sharpened and he listened 
eagerly. All was still. He went back to the books. 

There was nothing to be done but to make a desperate 
effort to occupy himself and to steady his nerves. If any 
one came now, he thought, his face would betray him. 
There must be a light in his eyes, an uncertainty in his 
manner which would speak plainly enough to his guilt. 
He tried to imagine what would take place when the body 
was found. Some one would enter the room and would 
see the body. He, or she, would perhaps think that the 
prince was in a fit, or asleep — who could tell? But he 
would not answer the voice that called him. Then the 
person would come forward and touch him — Meschini 
forced himself to think of it — would touch the dead hand 
and would feel that it was cold. With a cry of horror 
the person would hasten from the room. He miglit liear 
that cry, if he left the door open. Again he laid his 


sant’ ilario. 


347 


hand upon the latch. His fingers seemed paralysed and 
the cold sweat stood on his face, but he succeeded in' 
mastering himself enough to turn the handle and look 
out. The cry came, but it was from his own lips. He 
reeled back from the entrance in horror, his eyes starting 
from his head. There stood the dead man, in the dusky 
passage, shaking at him the handkerchief. 

It was only his fancy. He passed his hand across his 
forehead and a sickly look of relief crept over his face. 
He had been frightened by his own coat, that hung on a 
peg outside, long and thin and limp, a white handker- 
chief depending from the wide pocket. There was not 
much light in the corridor. He crept cautiously out and 
took the garment from its place with a nervous, fright- 
ened gesture. Dragging it after him, he hastily re-en- 
tered the library and rolled up the coat into a shape that 
could not possibly resemble anything which might 
frighten him. He laid it upon the table in the brightest 
place, where the afternoon sun fell upon it. There was 
a sort of relief in making sure that the thing could not 
again look like the dead man. He looked up and saw 
with renewed terror that he had left the door open. 
There was nothing but air between him and the place 
where that awful shadow had been conjured up by his 
imagination. The door must be shut. If it remained 
open he should go mad. He tried to think calmly, but 
it was beyond his power. He attempted to say that there 
was nothing there and that the door might as well remain 
open as be shut. But even while making the effort to 
reason with himself, he was creeping cautiously along the 
wall, in the direction of the entrance. By keeping his 
eyes close to the wooden panelling he could advance 
without seeing into the corridor. He was within a foot of 
the opening. Convulsed with fear, he put out his hand 
quickly and tried to pull the heavy oak on its hinges by 
the projecting bevel, but it was too heavy — he must look 
out in order to grasp the handle. The cold drops trickled 
down from his brow and he breathed hard, but he could 
not go back and leave the door unclosed. With a sup- 
pressed sob of agony he thrust out his head and arm. In 
a moment it was over, but the moral effort had been ter- 
rible, and his strength failed him, so that he staggered 


348 


sant’ ilario. 


against the wainscot and would have fallen hut for its 
support. 

Some moments elapsed before he could get to a chair, 
and when he at last sat down in a ray of sunshine to rest, 
his eyes remained fixed upon the sculptured brass handle 
of the latch. He almost expected that it would turn mys- 
teriously of itself and that the dead prince would enter 
the room. He realised that in his present condition he 
could not possibly face the person who before long would 
certainly bring him the news. He must have something 
to stimulate him and deaden his nerves. He had no idea 
how long a time had elapsed since he had done the deed, 
but it seemed that three or four hours must certainly 
have passed. In reality it was scarcely five and twenty 
minutes since he had left the study. He remembered 
suddenly that he had some spirits in his room at the top 
of the palace. Slowly and painfully he rose to his feet 
and went towards the other exit from the library, which, 
as in many ancient houses, opened upon the grand stair- 
case, so as to give free access to visitors from without. 
He had to cross the broad marble landing, whence a 
masked door led to the narrow winding steps by which 
he ascended to the upper story. He listened to hear 
whether any one was passing, and then went out. Once 
on his way he moved more quickly than seemed possible 
for a man so bent and mis-shapen. 

The bright afternoon sun streamed in through the 
window of his little chamber, a relief from the sombre 
gloominess of the lofty library, where the straggling rays 
seemed to make the great hall more shadowy by contrast. 
But Meschini did not stop to look about him. In a closet 
in the wall he kept his stores, his chemicals, his care- 
fully-composed inks, his bits of prepared parchment, and, 
together with many other articles belonging to his illicit 
business, he had a bottle of old brandy, which the butler 
had once given him out of the prince’s cellar, in return 
for a bit of legal advice which had saved the servant a 
lawyer’s fee. Arnoldo Meschini had always been a sober 
man, like most Italians, and the bottle had stood for 
years unopened in the cupboard. He had never thought 
of it, but, having been once placed there, it had been 
safe. The moment had come when the stimulant was 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


849 


precious. His fingers shook as he put the bottle to his 
lips ; when he set it down they were steady. The liquor 
acted like an enchantment, and the sallow-faced man 
smiled as he sat alone by his little table and looked at 
the thing that had restored him. The bottle had been 
full when he began to drink; the level of the liquid was 
now a good hand’s breadth below the neck. The quan- 
tity he had swallowed would have made a temperate 
man, in his normal state, almost half drunk. 

He sat still for a long time, waiting to see whether the 
draught would produce any other effect. He felt a pleas- 
ant warmth in his face and hands, the perspiration had 
disappeared from his brow, and he was conscious that he 
could now look out of the open door of the library with- 
out fear, even if his coat were hanging on the peg. It 
was incredible to him that he should have been so really 
terrified by a mere shadow. He had killed Prince Mon- 
tevarchi, and the body was lying in the study. Yes, he 
could think of it without shuddering, almost without an 
unpleasant sensation. In the dead man’s own words, it 
had been an act of divine justice and retribution, and 
since nobody could possibly discover the murderer, there 
was matter for satisfaction in the idea that the wicked 
old man no longer cumbered the earth with his presence. 
Strange, that he should have suffered such an agony of 
fear half an hour earlier. Was it half an hour? How 
pleasantly the sun shone in to the little room where he 
had laboured during so many years, and so profitably! 
Now that the prince was dead it would be amusing to look 
at those original documents for which he had made such 
skilfully-constructed substitutes. He would like to as- 
sure himself, however, that the deed had been well done. 
There was magic in that old liquor. Another little 
draught and he would go down to the study as though 
nothing had happened. If he should meet anybody his 
easy manner would disarm suspicion. Besides, he could 
take the bottle with him in the pocket of his long coat — 
the bottle of courage, he said to himself with a smile, as 
he set it to his lips. This time he drank but little, and 
very slowly. He was too cautious a man to throw away 
his ammunition uselessly. 

With a light heart he descended the winding stair and 


350 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


crossed the landing. One of Ascanio Bellegra’s servants 
passed at that moment. Meschini looked at the fellow 
quietly, and even gave him a friendly smile, to test his 
own coolness, a civility which was acknowledged by a 
familiar nod. The librarian’s spirits rose. He did not 
resent the familiarity of the footman, for, with all his 
learning, he was little more than a servant himself, and 
the accident had come conveniently as a trial of his 
strength. The man evidently saw nothing unusual in 
his appearance. Moreover, as he walked, the brandy 
bottle in his coat-tail pocket beat reassuringly against 
the calves of his legs. He opened the door of the library 
and found himself in the scene of his terror. 

There lay the old coat, wrapped together on the table, 
as he had left it. The sun had moved a little farther 
during his absence, and the heap of cloth looked inno- 
cent enough. Meschini could not understand how it had 
frightened him so terribly. He still felt that pleasant 
warmth about his face and hands. That was the door 
before which he had been such a coward. What was be- 
yond it? The empty passage. He would go and hang 
the coat where it had hung always, where he always left 
it when he came in the morning, unless he needed it to 
keep himself warm. What could be simpler, or easier? 
He took the thing in one hand, turned the handle and 
looked out. He was not afraid. The long, silent corri- 
dor stretched away into the distance, lighted at intervals 
by narrow windows that opened upon an inner court of 
the palace. Meschini suspended the coat upon the peg 
and stood looking before him, a contemptuous smile upon 
his face, as though he despised himself for his former 
fears. Then he resolutely walked towards the study, 
along the familiar way, down a flight of steps, then to 
the right — he stood before the door and the dead man 
was on the other side of it. He paused and listened. 
All was silent. 

It was clear to him, as he stood before the table and 
looked at the body, that no one had been there. Indeed, 
Meschini now remembered that it was a rule in the house 
never to disturb the prince unless a visitor came. He 
had always liked to spend the afternoon in solitude over 
his accounts and his plans. The librarian paused oppo- 


SANT’ ILAEIO. 


351 


site his victim and gazed at the fallen head and the 
twisted, whitened fingers. He put out his hand timidly 
and touched them, and was surprised to find that they 
were not quite cold. The touch, however, sent a very 
unpleasant thrill through his own frame, and he drew 
back quickly with a slight shiver. But he was not 
terrified as he had been before. The touch, only, was 
disagreeable to him. He took a book that lay at hand 
and pushed it against the dead man’s arm. There was 
no sign, no movement. He would have liked to go 
behind the chair and untie the handkerchief, but his 
courage was not quite equal to that. Besides, the hand- 
kerchief was Faustina’s. He had seen her father snatch 
it from her and throw it upon the floor, as he watched 
the pair through the keyhole. A strange fascination 
kept him in the study, and he would have yielded to it 
had he not been fortified against any such morbid folly 
by the brandy he had swallowed. He thought, as he 
turned to go, that it was a pity the prince never kept 
money in the house, for, in that case, he might have 
helped himself before leaving. To steal a small value 
was not worth while, ^ considering the danger of discov- 
ery. 

He moved on tiptoe, as though afraid of disturbing 
the rest of his old employer, and once or twice he looked 
back. Then at last he closed the door and retraced his 
steps through the corridor till he gained the library. He 
was surprised at his own boldness as he went, and at 
the indifference with which he passed by the coat that 
hung, limp as ever, upon its peg. He was satisfied, too, 
with the result of his investigations. The prince was 
certainly dead. As a direct consequence of his death, 
the secret of the Saracinesca suit was now his own; no 
one had a share in it, and it was worth money. He 
pulled out a number of volumes from the shelves and 
began to make a pretence of working upon the catalogue. 
But though he surrounded himself with the implements 
and necessaries for his task, his mind was busy with the 
new scheme that unfolded itself to his imagination. 

He and he alone, knew that San Giacinto’s possession 
of the Saracinesca inheritance rested upon a forgery. 
The fact that this forgery must be revealed, in order to 


352 


sant’ ilakio. 


reinstate tlie lawful possessors in tlieir right, did not 
detract in the least from the value of the secret. Two 
courses were open to him. He might go to old Leone 
Saracinesca and offer the original documents for sale, on 
receiving a guarantee for his own safety. Or he might 
offer them to San Giacinto, who was the person endan- 
gered by their existence. Montevarchi had promised 
him twenty thousand scudi for the job, and had never 
paid the money. He had cancelled his debt with his 
life, however, and had left the secret behind him. Either 
Saracinesca or San Giacinto would give five times twenty 
thousand, ten times as much, perhaps, for the original 
documents, the one in order to recover what was his 
own, the other to keep what did not belong to him. The 
great question to be considered was the way of making 
the offer. Meschini sat staring at the opposite row of 
books, engaged in solving the problem. Just then, one 
of the open volumes before him slipped a little upon 
another and the page turned slowly over. The librarian 
started slightly and glanced at the old-fashioned type. 
The work was a rare one, which he had often examined, 
and he knew it to be of great value. A new thought 
struck him. Why should he not sell this and many 
other volumes out of the collection, as well as realise 
money by disposing of his secret? He might as well be 
rich as possess a mere competence. 

He looked about him. With a little care and inge- 
nuity, by working at night and by visiting the sellers of 
old books during the day he might soon put together 
four or five hundred works which would fetch a high 
price, and replace them by so many feet of old trasli 
which would look as well. With his enormous industry 
it would be a simple matter to tamper with the cata- 
logue and to insert new pages which should correspond 
with the changes he contemplated. The old prince was 
dead, and little as he had really known about the library, 
his sons knew even less. Meschini could remove the 
stolen volumes to a safe place, and when he had realised 
the value of his secret, he would go to Paris, to Berlin, 
even to London, and dispose of his treasures one by one. 
He was amazed at the delights the future unfolded to 
him, everything seemed gilded, everything seemed ready 


sant’ ilario. 


353 


to turn into gold. His brain dwelt with an enthusiasm 
wholly new to him upon the dreams it conjured up. He 
felt twenty years younger. His fears had gone, and with 
them his humility. He saw himself no longer the poor 
librarian in his slippers and shabby clothes, cringing to 
his employer, spending his days in studying the forgeries 
he afterwards executed during the night, hoarding his 
ill-gotten gains with jealous secrecy, afraid to show to 
his few associates that he had accumulated a little wealth, 
timid by force of long habit and by the remembrance of 
the shame in his early life. All that had disappeared 
under the potent spell of his new-found courage. He 
fancied himself living in some distant capital, rich and 
respected, married, perhaps, having servants of his own, 
astonishing the learned men of some great centre by the 
extent of his knowledge and erudition. All the vanity 
of his nature was roused from its long sleep by a new set 
of emotions, till he could scarcely contain his inexplica- 
ble happiness. And how had all this come to him so 
suddenly in the midst of his obscure life? Simply by 
squeezing the breath out of an old man’s throat. How 
easy it had been. 

The unaccustomed energy which had been awakened 
in him by the spirits brought with it a pleasant restless- 
ness. He felt that he must go again to his little room 
upstairs, and take out the deeds and read them over. 
The sight of them would give an increased reality and 
vividness to his anticipations. Besides, too, it was just 
barely possible that there might be some word, some 
expression which he could change, and which should 
increase their value. To sit still, poring over the cata- 
logue in the library was impossible. Once more he 
climbed to his attic, but he could not comprehend why 
he felt a nervous desire to look behind him, as though 
he were followed by some person whose tread was noise- 
less. It was not possible, he thought, that the effects of 
his draught were already passing off. Such courage as 
he felt in him could not leave him suddenly. He reached 
his room and took the deeds from the secret place in 
which he had hidden them, spreading them out lovingly 
before him. As he sat down the bottle in his long coat 
touched the floor behind him with a short, dull thud. 

Y 


354 


sant’ ilario. 


It was as though a footstep had sounded in the silent 
room, and he sprang to his feet before he realised whence 
the noise came, looking behind him with startled eyes. 
In a moment he understood, and withdrawing the bottle 
from his pocket he set it beside him on the table. He 
looked at it for a few seconds as though in hesitation, 
but he determined not to have recourse to its contents so 
soon. He had undoubtedly been frightened again, but 
the sound, that had scared him had been real and not 
imaginary. Besides, he had but this one bottle and he 
knew that good brandy was dear. He pushed it away, 
his avarice helping him to resist the temptation. 

The old documents were agreeably familiar to his eye, 
and he read and re-read them with increasing satisfaction, 
comparing them carefully, and chuckling to himself each 
time that he reached the bottom of the sheet upon the 
copy, where there had been no room to introduce that 
famous clause. But for that accident, he reflected, he 
would have undoubtedly made the insertion upon the 
originals, and the latter would be now no longer in his 
possession. He did not quite understand why he derived 
such pleasure from reading the writing so often, nor why, 
when the surrounding objects in the room were clear and 
distinct to his eyes, the crabbed characters should every 
now and then seem to move of themselves and to run 
into each other from right to left. Possibly the emotions 
of the day had strained his vision. He looked up and 
saw the bottle. An irresistible desire seized him to 
taste the liquor again, even if he drank but a drop. The 
spirits wet his lips while he was still inwardly debating 
whether it were wise to drink or not. As he returned 
the cork to its place he felt a sudden revival within him 
of all he had experienced before. His face was warm, 
his fingers tingled. He took up one of the deeds with a 
firm hand and settled himself comfortably in his chair. 
But he could not read it through again. He laughed 
quietly at his folly. Did he not know every word by 
heart? He must occupy himself with planning, with 
arranging the details of his future. When that was done 
he could revel in the thought of wealth and rest and 
satisfied vanity. 

To his surprise, his thoughts did not flow as con- 


sant’ ilario. 


355 


nectedly as he had expected. He could not help think- 
ing of the dead man downstairs, not indeed with any 
terror, not fearing discovery for himself, but with a 
vague wonderment that made his mind feel empty. 
Turn over the matter as he would, he could not foresee 
connectedly what was likely to happen when the murder 
was known. There was no sequence in his imaginings, 
and he longed nervously for the moment when everything 
should be settled. The restlessness that had brought 
him up to his room demanded some sort of action to 
quiet it. He would willingly have gone out to see his 
friend, the little apothecary who lived near the Ponte 
Quattro Capi. It would be a relief to talk to some one, 
to hear the sound of a human voice. But a remnant of 
prudence restrained him. It was not very likely that 
he should be suspected; indeed, if he behaved prudently 
nothing was more improbable. To leave the house at 
such a time, however, would be the height of folly, 
unless it could be proved that he had gone out some time 
before the deed could have been done. The porter was 
vigilant, and Meschini almost always exchanged a few 
words with him as he passed through the gates. He 
would certainly note the time of the librarian’s exit 
more or less accurately. Moreover, the body might 
have been found already, and even now the gendarmes 
might be downstairs. The latter consideration deter- 
mined him to descend once more to the library. A slight 
chill passed over him as he closed the door of his room 
behind him. 

The great hall now seemed very gloomy and cold, and 
the solitude was oppressive. He felt the necessity for 
movement, and began to walk quickly up and down the 
length of the library between the broad tables, from one 
door to the other. At first, as he reached tho one that 
separated him from the passage he experienced no disa- 
greeable sensation, but turned his back upon it at the end 
of his walk and retraced his steps. Very gradually, how- 
ever, he began to feel uncomfortable as he reached that 
extremity of the room, and the vision of the dead prince 
rose before his eyes. The coat was there again, on the 
other side of the door. No doubt it would take the same 
shape again if he looked at it. His varying courage was 


356 


sant’ ilario. 


just at the point when he was able to look out in order 
to assure himself that the limp garment had not assumed 
the appearance of a ghost. He felt a painful thrill in 
his back as he turned the handle, and the cold air that 
rushed in as he opened the door seemed to come from a 
tomb. Although his eyes were satisfied when he had 
seen the coat in the corner, he drew back quickly, and 
the thrill was repeated with greater distinctness as he 
heard the bolt of the latch slip into its socket. He 
walked away again, but the next time he came back he 
turned at some distance from the threshold, and, as he 
turned, he felt the thrill a third time, almost like an 
electric shock. He could not bear it and sat down before 
the catalogue. His eyes refused to read, and after a 
lengthened struggle between his fears, his prudence and 
his economy, he once more drew the bottle from his pocket 
and fortified himself with a draught. This time he drank 
more, aud the effect was different. For some seconds he. 
felt no change in his condition. Presently, however, his 
nervousness disappeared, giving place now to a sort of 
stupid indifference. The light was fading from the clere- 
story windows of the library, and, within, the corners and 
recesses were already dark. But Meschini was past imag- 
ining ghosts or apparitions. He sat quite still, his chin 
leaning on his hand and his elbow on the table, wondering 
vaguely how long it would be before they came to tell 
him that the prince was dead. He did not sleep, but he 
fell into a state of torpor which was restful to his nerves. 
Sleep would certainly come in half an hour if he were 
left to himself as long as that. His breathing was 
heavy, and the silence around him was intense. At last 
the much-dreaded moment came, and found him dull and 
apathetic. 

The door opened and a ray of light from a candle 
entered the room, which was now almost dark. A foot- 
man and a housemaid thrust in their heads cautiously 
and peered into the broad gloom, holding the candle high 
before them. Either would have been afraid to come 
alone. 

‘^Sor Arnoldo, Sor Arnoldo!” the man called out 
timidly, as though frightened by the sound of his own 
voice. 


sant’ ilario. 


357 


^^Here I am,” answered Meschini, affecting a cheerful 
tone as well as he could. Once more and very quickly 
he took a mouthful from the bottle, behind the table 
where they could not see him. What is the matter?” 
he asked. 

The prince is murdered ! ” cried the two servants in 
a breath. They were very pale as they came towards 
him. 

If the cry he uttered was forced they were too much 
terrified to notice it. As they told their tale with every 
species of exaggeration, interspersed with expressions of 
horror and amazement, he struck his hands to his Lead, 
moaned, cried aloud, and, being half hysterical with 
drink, shed real tears in their presence. Then they led 
him away, saying that the prefect of police was in the 
study and that all the household had been summoned to 
be examined by him. He was now launched in his part, 
and could play it to the end without breaking down. He 
had afterwards very little recollection of what had 
occurred. He remembered that the stillness of the study 
and the white faces of those present had impressed him 
by contrast with the noisy grief of the servants who had 
summoned him. He remembered that he had sworn, 
and others had corroborated his oath, to the effect that 
he had spent the afternoon between the library and his 
room. Ascanio Bellegra’s footman remembered meeting 
him on the landing, and said that he had smiled pleasantly 
in an unconcerned way, as usual, and had passed on. 
For the rest, no one seemed even to imagine that he 
could have done the deed, for no one had ever heard any- 
thing but friendly words between him and the prince. 
He remembered, too, having seen the dead body extended 
upon the great table of the study, and he recalled Donna 
Faustina’s tone of voice indistinctly as in a dream. 
Then, before the prefect announced his decision, he was 
dismissed with the other servants. 

After that moment all was a blank in his mind. In 
reality he returned to his room and sat down by his table 
with a candle before him. He never knew that after the 
examination he had begged another bottle of liquor of 
the butler on the ground that his nerves were upset by 
the terrible event. About midnight the candle burned 


358 


sant’ ilario. 


down into the socket. Profiting by the last ray of light 
he drank a final draught and reeled to his bed, dressed 
as he was. One bottle was empty, and a third of the 
second was gone. Arnoldo Meschini was dead drunk. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Corona was not much surprised when the messenger 
brought her carriage and presented the order for Faus- 
tina’s liberation. When Giovanni had left her she had 
felt that he would find means to procure the young girl’s 
liberty, and the only thing which seemed strange to her 
was the fact that Giovanni did not return himself. The 
messenger said he had seen him with the cardinal and 
that Sant’ Ilario had given the order to use the carriage. 
Beyond that, he knew nothing. Corona at once took 
Faustina to the Palazzo Montevarchi, and then, with a 
promise to come back in the course of the day, she went 
home to rest. 

She needed repose even more than Faustina, who, 
after all, had slept soundly on her prison bed, trusting 
with childlike faith in her friend’s promise that she 
should be free in the morning. Corona, on the contrary, 
had passed a wakeful night, and was almost worn out 
with fatigue. She remained in her room until twelve 
o’clock, the hour when the members of the family met 
at the midday breakfast. She found her father-in-law 
waiting for her, and at a glance she saw that he was in a 
savage humour. His bronzed face was paler than usual 
and his movements more sudden and nervous, while his 
dark eyes gleamed angrily beneath his bent and shaggy 
brows. Corona, on her part, was silent and preoccupied. 
In spite of the tragic events of the night, which, after 
all, only affected her indirectly at present, and in spite 
of the constant moral suffering which now played so 
important a part in her life, she could not but be dis- 
turbed by the tremendous loss sustained by her husband 
and by his father. It fell most heavily upon the latter, 


sant’ ilario. 


359 


who was an old man, and whose mind was not engaged 
by any other absorbing consideration, but the blow was 
a terrible one to the other also. 

Where is Giovanni?” asked Saracinesca brusquely, 
as they sat down to the table. 

‘‘ I do not know,” answered Corona. “ The last I heard 
of him was that he was with Cardinal Antonelli. I sup- 
pose that after getting the order to release Faustina he 
stayed there.” 

“So his Eminence suffered himself to be persuaded 
that a little girl did not strangle that old sinner,” re- 
marked the prince. 

“ Apparently.” 

“ If they had taken Flavia it would have been more 
natural. She would have inaugurated her reign as Prin- 
cess Saracinesca by a night in the Termini. Delightful 
contrast! I suppose you know who did it? ” 

“No. Probably a servant, though they say that noth- 
ing was stolen.” 

“ San Giacinto did it. I have thought the whole mat- 
ter out, and I am convinced of it. Look at his hands. He 
could strangle an elephant. Not that he could have had 
any particular reason for liquidating his father-in-law. 
He is rich enough without Flavia’ s share, but I always 
thought he would kill somebody one of these days, ever 
since I met him at Aquila.” 

“Without any reason, why should he have done it?” 

“ My dear child, when one has no reason to give, it is 
very hard to say why a thing occurs. He looks like the 
man.” 

“ Is it conceivable that after getting all he could desire 
he should endanger his happiness in such a way?” 

“ Perhaps not. I believe he did it. What an abomina- 
ble omelet — a glass of water, Pasquale. Abominable, is 
it not. Corona? Perfectly uneatable. I suppose the cook 
has heard of our misfortunes and wants to leave.” 

“ I fancy we are not very hungry, ” remarked Corona, 
in order to say something. 

“ I would like to know whether the murderer is eating 
his breakfast at this moment, and whether he has any appe- 
tite. It would be interesting from a psychological point 
of view. By the bye, all this is very like a 


360 


SANT’ ILAlilO. 


^‘What?’’ 

“ Montevarchi coming to his end on the very day he 
had won the suit. In good old times it would have been 
Giovanni who would have cut his throat, after which we 
should have all retired to Saracinesca and prepared for a 
siege. Less civilised but twice as human. No doubt 
they will say now — even now — that we paid a man to 
do the work.” 

“ But it was San Giacinto who brought the suit ” 

^‘It was Montevarchi. I have seen my lawyer this 
morning. He says that Montevarchi sent the people out 
to Frascati to see San Giacinto and explained the whole 
matter to them beforehand. He discovered the clause in 
the deeds first. San Giacinto never even saw them until 
everything was ready. And on the evening of the very 
day when it was settled, Montevarchi is murdered. I 
wonder that it has not struck any one to say we did it.” 

“You did not oppose the suit. If you had, it would 
have been different.” 

“How could I oppose the action? It was clear from 
the beginning that we had no chance of winning it. The 
fact remains that we are turned out of our home. The 
sooner we leave this the better. It will only be harder 
to go if we stay here.” 

“ Yes,” answered Corona sadly. “It will be harder.” 

“ I believe it is a judgment of heaven on Giovanni for 
his outrageous conduct,” growled the prince, suddenly 
running away with a new idea. 

“On Giovanni?” Corona was roused immediately by 
the mention of her husband in such a connection. 

“Yes, for his behaviour to you, the young scoundrel! 
I ought to have disinherited him at once.” 

“Please do not talk in that way. I cannot let you 
say ” 

“He is my own son, and I will say what I please,” 
interrupted Saracinesca fiercely. “ He treated you out- 
rageously, I say. It is just like a woman to deny it and 
defend her husband.” 

“ Since there is no one else to defend him, I must. He 
was misled, and naturally enough, considering the ap- 
pearances. I did not know that you knew about it all.” 

“ I do not know all, nor half. 13ut I know enough. A 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


361 


man who suspects such a woman as you deserves to be 
hanged. Besides/’ he added irrelevantly, but with an 
intuitive keenness that startled Corona, “besides, you 
have not forgiven him.” 

“ Indeed I have ” 

“ In a Christian spirit, no doubt. I know you are good. 
But you do not love him as you did. It is useless to deny 
it. Why should you? I do not blame you, I am sure.” 

The prince fixed his bright eyes on her face and waited 
for her answer. She turned a little paler and said nothing 
for several moments. Then as he watched her he saw 
the colour mount slowly to her olive cheeks. She herself 
could hardly have accounted for the unwonted blush, and 
a man capable of more complicated reasoning than her 
father-in-law would have misinterpreted it. Corona had 
at first been angry at the thought that he could speak as 
he did of Giovanni, saying things she would not say to 
herself concerning him. Then she felt a curious sensation 
of .shame at being discovered. It was true that she did 
not love her husband, or at least that she believed her- 
self unable to love him ; but she was ashamed that any 
one else should know it. 

“Why will you persist in talking about the matter?” 
she asked at length. “It is between us two.” 

“ It seems to me that it concerns me,” returned Saracin- 
esca, who was naturally pertinacious. “I am not in- 
quisitive. I ask no questions. Giovanni has said very 
little about it to me. But I am not blind. He came to 
me one evening and said he was going to take you away 
to the mountains. He seemed very much disturbed, and 
I saw that there had been trouble between you, and tliat 
lie suspected you of something. He did not say so, but 
T knew what he meant. If it had turned out true I think 
I would have — well, I would not have answered for my 
conduct. Of course I took his part, but you fell ill, and 
did not know that. When he came and told me that he 
had been mistaken I abused him like a thief. I have 
abused him ever since whenever I have had a chance. 
It was a vile, dastardly, foolish, ridiculous ” 

“For heaven’s sake! ” cried Corona, interrupting him. 
“ Pray, pray leave the question in peace ! I am so un- 
hapj)y ! ” 


362 


sant’ ilario. 


^^Soaml,” answered Saracinesca bluntly. does 

not add to my happiness to know that my son has made 
an ass of himself. Worse than that. You do not seem 
to realise that I am very fond of you. If I had not been 
such an old man I should have fallen in love with you as 
well as Giovanni. Do you remember when I rode over 
to Astrardente, and asked you to marry him? I would 
have given all I am — all I was worth, I mean, to be in 
Giovanni’s shoes when I brought back your answer. 
Bah! I am an old fellow and no Apollo either! But you 
have been a good daughter to me. Corona, and I will not 
let any one behave badl}? to you.” 

“ And you have been good to me — so good ! But you 
must not be angry with Giovanni. He was misled. He 
loved me even then.” 

wish I were as charitable as you.” 

^^Do not call me charitable. I am anything but that. 
If I were I would ” She stopped short. 

“ Yes, I know, you would love him as you did before. 
Then you would not be Corona, but some one else. I 
know that sort of argument. But you cannot be two 
persons at one time. The other woman, whom you have 
got in your mind, and who would love Giovanni, is a 
weak-minded kind of creature who bears anything and 
everything, who will accept any sort of excuse for an in- 
sult, and will take credit to herself for being long-suffer- 
ing because she has not the spirit to be justly angry. 
Thank heaven you are not like that. If you were, Gio- 
vanni would not have had you for a wife nor I for a 
daughter.” 

“I think it is my fault. I would do anything in the 
world to make it otherwise.” 

You admit the fact then? Of course. It is a misfor- 
tune, and not your fault. It is one more misfortune 
among so many. You may forgive him, if you please. 
I will not. By the bye, I wonder why he does not come 
back. I would like to hear the news.” 

^‘The cardinal may have kept him to breakfast.” 

Since seven o’clock this morning? That is impossi- 
ble. Unless his Eminence has arrested him on charge 
of the murder.” The old gentleman laughed gruffly, little 
guessing how near his jest lay to the truth. But Corona 


sant’ ilaeio. 


363 


looked up quickly. The mere idea of such a horrible 
contingency was painful to her, absurd and wildly im- 
probable as it appeared. 

I was going to ask him to go up to Saracinesca to- 
morrow and see to the changes,’^ continued the prince. 

“Must it be so soon?” asked Corona regretfully. “Is 
it absolutely decided? Have you not yielded too easily? ” 

“ I cannot go over all the arguments again, ” returned 
her father-in-law with some impatience. “ There is no 
doubt about it. I expended all my coolness and civility 
on San Giacinto when he came to see me about it. It is of 
no use to complain, and we cannot draw back. I suppose 
I might go down on my knees to the Pope and ask his 
Holiness for another title — for the privilege of being 
Qalled something, Principe di Cavolfiore, if you like. 
But I will not do it. I will die as Leone Saracinesca. 
You can give Giovanni your old title, if you please — it 
is yours to give.” 

“ He shall have it if he wants it. What does it matter? 
I can be Donna Corona.” 

“Ay, what does it matter, provided we have peace? 
What does anything matter in this unutterably ridiculous 
world — except your happiness, poor child ! Yes. Every- 
thing must be got ready. I will not^tay in this house 
another week. ” 

“ But in a week it will be impossible to do all there is 
to be done ! ” exclaimed Corona, whose feminine mind 
foresaw infinite difficulties in jnoving. 

“Possible, or impossible, it must be accomplished. I 
have appointed this day week for handing over the prop- 
erty. The lawyers said, as you say, that it would need 
more time. I told them that there was no time, and that 
if they could not do it, I would employ some one else. 
They talked of sitting up all night — as if I cared 
whether they lost their beauty sleep or not! A week 
from to-day everything must be settled, so that I have not 
in my possession a penny that does not belong to me. ” 

“And then — what will you do?” asked Corona, who 
saw in spite of his vehemence how much he was affected 
by the prospect. 

“And then? What then? Live somewhere else, I 
suppose, and pray for an easy death.” 


364 


sant’ ilario. 


No one liad ever heard Leone Saracinesca say before 
now that he desired to die, and the wish seemed so con- 
trary to the nature of his character that Corona looked 
earnestly at him. His face was discomposed, and his 
voice had trembled. He was a brave man, and a very 
honourable one, but he was very far from being a phi- 
losopher. As he had said, he had expended all his calm- 
ness in that one meeting with San Giacinto when he had 
been persuaded of the justice of the latter^s claims. Since 
then he had felt nothing but bitterness, and the outward 
expression of it was either an unreasonable irritation 
concerning small matters, or some passionate outburst 
like the present against life, against the world in which 
he lived, against everything. It is scarcely to be won- 
dered at that he should have felt the loss so deeply, more 
deeply even than Giovanni. He had been for many years 
the sole head and master of his house, and had borne all 
the hereditary dignities that belonged to his station, some 
of which were of a kind that pleased his love of feudal 
traditions. For the money he cared little. The loss that 
hurt him most touched his pride, and that generous 
vanity which was a part of his nature, which delighted 
in the honour accorded to his name, to his son, to his 
son’s wife, in the perpetuation of his race and in a cer- 
tain dominating independence, that injured no one and 
gave himself immense satisfaction. At his age he was 
not to be blamed for such feelings. They proceeded in 
reality far more from habit than from a vain disposition, 
and it seemed to him that if he bore the calamity bravely 
he had a right to abuse his fate in his own language. But 
he could not always keep himself from betraying more 
emotion than he cared to show. 

“ Do not talk of death,” said Corona. Giovanni and I 
will make your life happy and worth living.” She sighed 
as she spoke, in spite of herself. 

“Giovanni and you!” repeated the prince gloomily. 
“But for his folly — what is the use of talking? I have 
much to do. If he comes to you this afternoon please 
tell him that I want him.” 

Corona was glad when the meal was ended, and she 
went back to her own room. She had promised to go and 
see Faustina again, but otherwise she did not know how 


SANT’ ILAKIO. 


365 


to occupy herself. A vague uneasiness beset her as the 
time passed and her husband did not come home. It was 
unlike him to stay away all day without warning her, 
though she was obliged to confess to herself that she had 
of late shown very little interest in his doings, and that 
it would not be very surprising if he began to do as he 
pleased without informing her of his intentions. Never- 
theless she wished he would show himself before evening. 
The force of habit was still strong, and she missed him 
without quite knowing it. At last she made an effort against 
her apathy, and went out to pay the promised visit. 

The Montevarchi household was subdued under all the 
outward pomp of a ponderous mourning. The gates and 
staircases were hung with black. In the vast antecham- 
ber the canopy was completely hidden by an enormous 
hatchment before which the dead prince had lain in state 
during the previous night and a part of the day. Accord- 
ing to the Roman custom the body had been already 
removed, the regulations of the city requiring that this 
should be done within twenty-four hours. The great 
black pedestals on which the lights had been placed were 
still standing, and lent a ghastly and sepulchral appear- 
ance to the whole. Numbers of servants in mourning 
liveries stood around an immense copper brazier in a 
corner, talking together in low tones, their voices dying 
away altogether as the Princess Sant’ Ilario entered the 
open door of the hall. The man who came forward ap- 
peared to be the person in charge of the funeral, for 
Corona had not seen him in the house before. 

“Donna Paustina expects me,” she said, continuing to 
walk towards the entrance to the apartments. 

“ Your Excellency’s name? ” inquired the man. Corona 
was surprised that he should ask, and wondered whether 
even the people of his class already knew the result of 
the suit. 

“ Donna Corona Saracinesca, ” she answered in distinct 
tones. The appellation sounded strange and unfamiliar. 

“Donna Corona Saracinesca,” the man repeated in a 
loud voice a second later. He had almost run into San 
Giacinto, who was coming out at that moment. Corona 
found herself face to face with her cousin. 

“You — princess ! ” he exclaimed, putting out his hand. 


8G6 


sant’ ilario. 


In spite of the relationship he was not privileged to call 
her by her name. ‘‘Yon — why does the man announce 
you in that way?” 

Corona topk his hand and looked quietly into his face. 
They had not met since the decision. 

“ I told him to do so. I shall be known by that name 
in future. I have come to see Faustina.” She would 
have passed on. 

“Allow me to say,” said San Giacinto, in his deep, 
calm voice, “that as far as I am concerned you are, and 
always shall be. Princess Sant’ Ilario. No one can 
regret more than I the position in which I am placed 
towards you and yours, and I shall certainly do all in my 
power to prevent any such unnecessary changes.” 

“We cannot discuss that matter here,” answered 
Corona, speaking more coldly than she meant to do. 

“ I trust there need be no discussion. I even hope that 
you will bear me no ill will.” 

“I bear you none. You have acted honestly and 
openly. You had right on your side. But neither my 
husband nor I will live under a borrowed name.” 

San Giacinto seemed hurt by her answer. He stood 
aside to allow her to pass, and there was something 
dignified in his demeanour that pleased Corona. 

“The settlement is not made yet,” he said gravely. 
“Until then the name is yours.” 

When she was gone he looked after her with an expres- 
sion of annoyance upon his face. He understood well 
enough what she felt, but he was very far from wishing 
to let any unpleasantness arise between him and her 
family. Even in the position to which he had now 
attained he felt that there was an element of uncertainty, 
and he did not feel able to dispense with the good-will 
of his relations, merely because he was Prince Saracin- 
esca and master of a great fortune. His early life had 
made him a cautious man, and he did not underestimate 
the value of personal influence. Moreover, he had not 
a bad heart, and preferred if possible to be on good terms 
with everybody. According to his own view he had 
done nothing more than claim what was legitimately his, 
but he did not want the enmity of those who had resigned 
all into his hands. 


sant’ ilarto. 


367 


Corona went on her way and found Faustina and Flavia 
together. Their mother was not able to see any one. 
The rest of the family had gone to the country as soon 
as the body had been taken away, yielding without any 
great resistance to the entreaties of their best friends 
who, according to Koman custom, thought it necessary to 
divert ” the mourners. That is the consecrated phrase, 
and people of other countries may open their eyes in 
astonishment at the state of domestic relations as revealed 
by this practice. It is not an uncommon thing for the 
majority of the family to go away even before death has 
actually taken place. Speaking of a person who is dying, 
it is not unusual to say, ‘‘You may imagine how ill he 
is, for the family has left him ! ” The servants attend 
the E/Cquiem Mass, the empty carriages follow the hearse 
to the gates of the city, but the family is already in the 
country, trying to “ divert ” itself. 

Flavia and Faustina, however, had stayed at home, 
partly because the old princess was really too deeply 
moved and profoundly shocked to go away, and partly 
because San Giacinto refused to leave Rome. Faustina, 
too, was eccentric enough to think such haste after “di- 
version’’ altogether indecent, and she herself had been 
through such a series of emotions during the twenty -four 
hours that she found rest needful. As for Flavia, she 
took matters very calmly, but would have preferred very 
much to be with her brothers and their wives. The 
calamity had for the time subdued her vivacity, though 
it was easy to see that it had made no deep impression 
upon her nature. If the truth were told, she was more 
unpleasantly affected by thus suddenly meeting Corona 
than by her father’s tragic death. She thought it neces- 
sary to be more than usually affectionate, not out of cal- 
culation, but rather to get rid of a disagreeable impression. 
She sprang forward and kissed Corona on both cheeks. 

“I was longing to see you ! ” she said enthusiastically. 
“You have been so kind to Faustina. I am sure we can 
never thank you enough. Imagine, if she had been 
obliged to spend the night alone in prison ! Such an 
abominable mistake, too. I hope that dreadful man will 
be sent to the galleys. Poor little Faustina! How 
could any one think she could do such a thing! ” 


368 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


Corona was not prepared for Flavia’s manner, and it 
grated disagreeably on her sensibilities. But she said 
nothing, only returning her salutation with becoming 
cordiality before sitting down between the two sisters. 
Faustina looked on coldly, disgusted with such indiffer- 
ence. It struck her that if Corona had not accompanied 
her to the Termini, it would have been very hard to 
induce any of her own family to do so. 

And poor papa ! ” continued Flavia volubly. Is it 
not too dreadful, too horrible? To think of any one 
daring ! I shall never get over the impression it made 
on me — never. Without a priest, without any one — 
poor dear ! ” 

‘‘Heaven is very merciful,” said Corona, thinking it 
necessary to make some such remark. 

“Oh, I know,” answered Flavia, with sudden serious- 
ness. “ I know. But poor papa — you see — I am afraid 

She stopped significantly and shook her head, evidently 
implying that Prince Montevarchi’s chances of blessed- 
ness were but slender. 

“Flavia!” cried Faustina indignantly, “how can you 
say such things ! ” 

“Oh, I say nothing, and besides, I daresay — you see 
he was sometimes very kind. It was only yesterday, 
for instance, that he actually promised me those earrings 
— you know, Faustina, the pearl drops at Civilotti’s — 
it is true, they were not so very big after all. He really 
said he would give them to me as a souvenir if — oh I I 
forgot.” 

She stopped with some embarrassment, for she had 
been on the point of saying that the earrings were to be 
a remembrance if the suit were won, when she recollected 
that she was speaking to Corona. 

“Well — it would have been very kind of him if he 
had,” she added. “Perhaps that is something. Poor 
papa ! One would feel more sure about it, if he had got 
some kind of absolution.” 

“ I do not believe you cared for him at all ! ” exclaimed 
Faustina. Corona evidently shared this belief, for she 
looked very grave and was silent. 

“ Oh, Faustina, how unkind you are ! ” cried Flavia in 


sant’ ilario. 


369 


great astonishment and some anger. “ I am snre I loved 
poor papa as much as any of you, and perhaps a great 
deal better. We were always such good friends! 

Faustina raised her eyebrows a little and looked at 
Corona as though to say that her sister was hopeless, and 
for some minutes no one spoke. 

“You are quite rested now?” asked Corona at last, 
turning to the young girl. “Poor child! what you must 
have suffered ! ” 

“ It is strange, but I am not tired. I slept, you know, 
for I was worn out.” 

“Faustina’s grief did not keep her awake,” observed 
Flavia, willing to say something disagreeable. 

“I only came to see how you were,” said Corona, who 
did not care to prolong the interview. “ I hope to hear 
that your mother is better to-morrow. I met Saracinesca 
as I came in, but I did not ask him.” 

“Your father-in-law?” asked Faustina innocently. 
“I did not know he had been here.” 

“No; your husband, my dear,” answered Corona, look- 
ing at Flavia as she spoke. She was curious to see what 
effect the change had produced upon her. Flavia’s 
cheeks flushed quickly, evidentl}^ with pleasure, if also 
with some embarrassment. But Corona was calm and 
unmoved as usual. 

“I did not know you already called him so,” said 
Flavia. “How strange it will be! ” 

“We shall soon get used to it,” replied Corona, with 
a smile, as she rose to go. “ I wish you many years of 
happiness with your new name. Good-bye.” Faustina 
went with her into one of the outer rooms. 

“Tell me,” she said, when they were alone, “how did 
your husband manage it so quickly? They told me 
to-day that the cardinal had at first refused. I cannot 
understand it. I could not ask you before Flavia — she 
is so inquisitive ! ” 

“I do not know — I have not seen Giovanni yet. He 
stayed with the cardinal when the carriage came for us. 
It was managed in some way, and quickly. I shall hear 
all about it this evening. What is it, dear?” 

There were tears in Faustina’s soft eyes, followed 
quickly by a little sob. 

z 


370 


sant’ ilario. 


“I miss him dreadfully!” she exclaimed, laying her 
head on her friend’s shoulder. “ And I am so unhappy ! 
We parted angrily, and I can never tell him how sorry I 
am. You do not think it could have had anything to do 
with it, do you?” 

‘‘Your little quarrel? No, child. What could it have 
changed? We do not know w'hat happened.” 

“I shall never forget his face. I was dreadfully 
undutiful — oh! I could almost marry that man if it 
would do any good ! ” 

Corona smiled sadly. The young girl’s sorrow was 
genuine, in strange contrast to Tlavia’s voluble flippancy. 
She laid her hand affectionately on the thick chestnut 
hair. 

“Perhaps he sees now that you should not marry 
against your heart.” 

“ Oh, do you think so? I wish it were possible. I 
should not feel as though I were so bad if I thought he 
understood now. I could bear it better. I should not 
feel as though it were almost a duty to marry Frangi- 
pani.” 

Corona turned quickly with an expression that was 
almost fierce in its intensity. She took Faustina’s hands 
in hers. 

“Never do that, Faustina. Whatever comes to you, 
do not do that! You do not know what it is to live with 
a man you do not love, even if you do not hate him. It 
is worse than death.” 

Corona kissed her and left her standing by the door. 
Was it possible, Faustina asked, that Corona did not love 
her huslDand? Or was she speaking of her former life 
with old Astrardente? Of course, it must be that. 
Giovanni and Corona were a proverbially happy couple. 

When Corona again entered her own room, there was a 
note lying upon the table, the one her husband had 
written that morning from his place of confinement. 
She tore the envelope open with an anxiety of which she 
had not believed herself capable. She had asked for him 
when she returned and he had not been heard of yet. 
The vague uneasiness she had felt at his absence sud- 
denly increased, until she felt that unless she saw him 
at once she must go in search of him. She read the note 


sant’ ilario. 371 

through again and again, without clearly understanding 
the contents. 

It was evident that he had left Koine suddenly and had 
not cared to tell her whither he was going, since the 
instructions as to what she was to say were put in such 
a manner as to make it evident that they were only to 
serve as an excuse for his absence to others, and not as 
an explanation to herself. The note was enigmatical and 
might mean almost anything. At last Corona tossed the 
bit of paper into the fire, and tapped the thick carpet 
impatiently with her foot. 

“ How coldly he writes ! ” she exclaimed aloud. 

The door opened and her maid appeared. 

“Will your Excellency receive Monsieur Gouache?” 
asked the woman from the threshold. 

“No! certainly not!” answered Corona, in a voice 
that frightened the servant. “I am not at home.” 

“Yes, your Excellency.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

The amount of work which Arnoldo Meschini did in 
the twenty-four hours of the day depended almost entirely 
upon his inclinations. The library had always been 
open to the public once a week, on Mondays, and on 
those occasions the librarian was obliged to be present. 
The rest of his time was supposed to be devoted to the 
incessant labour connected with so important a collection 
of books, and, on the whole, he had done far more than 
was expected of him. Prince Montevarchi had never 
proposed to give him an assistant, and he would have 
rejected any such offer, since the presence of another 
person would have made it almost impossible for him to 
carry on his business of forging ancient manuscripts. 
The manual labour of his illicit craft was of course per- 
formed in his own room, but a second librarian could not 
have failed to discover that there was something wrong. 
Night after night he carried the precious manuscripts to 
his chamber, bringing them back and restoring them to 


372 


sant’ ilario. 


their places every morning. During the day he studied 
attentively what he afterwards executed in the quiet 
hours when he could be alone. Of the household none 
but the prince himself ever came to the library; no other 
member of the family cared for the books or knew any- 
thing about them. His employer being dead, Meschiiii 
was practically master of all the shelves contained. Ho 
one disturbed him, no one asked what he was doing. His 
salary would be paid regularly by the steward, and he 
would in all probability be left to vegetate unheeded for 
the rest of his natural lifetime. When he died some one 
else would be engaged in his place. In the ordinary course 
of events no other future would have been open to him. 

He awoke very late in the morning on the day after 
the murder, and lay for some time wondering why he 
was so very uncomfortable, why his head hurt him, why 
his vision was indistinct, why he could remember noth- 
ing he had done before going lo bed. The enormous 
quantity of liquor he had drunk had temporarily destroyed 
his faculties, which were not hardened by the habitual 
use of alcohol. He turned his head uneasily upon the 
pillow and saw the bottles on the table, the candle burnt 
down in the brass candlestick and the general disorder in 
the room. He glanced at his own body and saw that he 
was lying dressed upon his bed. Then the whole truth 
flashed upon his mind with appalling vividness. A 
shock went through his system as though some one had 
struck him violently on the back of the head, while the 
light in the room was momentarily broken into flashes 
that pained his eyes. He got upon his feet with diffi- 
culty, and steadied himself by the bed-post, hardly able 
to stand alone. 

He had murdered his master. The first moment in 
which he realised the fact was the most horrible he 
remembered to have passed. He had killed the prince 
and could recall nothing, or next to nothing, that had 
occurred since the deed. Almost before he knew what 
he w^as doing he had locked his door with a double turn 
of the key and was pushing the furniture against it, the 
table, the chairs, everything that he could move. It 
seemed to him that he could already hear upon the wind- 
ing stair the clank of the gens d’annes^ sabres as they 


sant’ ilario. 


373 


came to get him. He looked wildly round the room to 
see whether there was anything that could lead to dis- 
covery. The unwonted exertion, however, had restored 
the circulation of his blood, and with it arose an indis- 
tinct memory of the sense of triumph he had felt when 
he had last entered the chamber. He asked himself how 
he could have rejoiced over the deed, unless he had 
unconsciously taken steps for his own safety. The body 
must have been found long ago. 

Very gradually there rose before him the vision of the 
scene in the study, when he had been summoned thither 
by the two servants, the dead prince stretched on the 
table, the pale faces, the prefect, Donna Faustina’s voice, 
a series of questions asked in a metallic, pitiless tone. 
He had not been drunk, therefore, when they had sent 
for him. And yet, he knew that he had not been sober. 
In what state, then, had he found himself? With a 
shudder, he remembered his terror in the library, his 
fright at the ghost which had turned out to be only his 
own coat, his visit to his room, and the first draught he 
had swallowed. From that point onwards his memory 
grew less and less clear. He found that he could not 
remember at all how he had come upstairs the last time. 

One thing was evident, however. He had not been 
arrested, since he found himself in his chamber unmo- 
lested. Who, then, had been taken in his place? He 
was amazed to find that he did not know. Surely, at 
the first inquest, something must have been said which 
would have led to the arrest of some one. The law never 
went away empty-handed. He racked his aching brain 
to bring back the incident, but it would not be recalled 
— for the excellent reason that he really knew nothing 
about the matter. It was a relief at all events to find 
that he had actually been examined with the rest and 
had not been suspected. Nevertheless, he had undoubt- 
edly done the deed, of which the mere thought made him 
tremble in every joint. Or was it all a part of his 
drunken dreams? No, that, at least, could not be 
explained away. For a long time he moved uneasily 
from his barricade at the door to the window, from which 
he tried to see the street below. But his room was in 
the attic, and the broad stone cornice of the palace cut 


374 


sant’ ilario. 


off the view effectually. At last he began to pull the 
furniture away from the entrance, slowly at first, as he 
merely thought of its uselessness, then with feverish 
haste, as he realised that the fact of his trying to entrench 
himself in his quarters would seem suspicious. In a few 
seconds he had restored everything to its place. The 
brandy bottles disappeared into the cupboard in the wall ; 
a bit of candle filled the empty candlestick. He tore off’ 
his clothes and jumped into bed, tossing himself about 
to give it the appearance of having been slept in. Then 
he got up again and proceeded to make his toilet. All 
his clothes were black, and he had but a slender choice. 
He understood vaguely, however, that there would be a 
funeral or some sort of ceremony in which all the mem- 
bers of the household would be expected to join, and he 
arrayed himself in the best he had — a decent suit of 
broadcloth, a clean shirt, a black tie. He looked at 
himself in the cracked mirror. His face was ghastly 
yellow, the whites of his eyes injected with blood, the 
veins at the temples swollen and congested. He was 
afraid that his appearance might excite remark, though 
it was in reality not very much changed. 

Then, as he thought of this, he realised that he was to 
meet a score of persons, some of whom would very prob- 
ably look at him curiously. His nerves were in a shat- 
tered condition; he almost broke down at the mere idea 
of what he must face. What would become of him in 
the presence of the reality? And yet he had met the 
whole household bravely enough on the very spot where 
he had done the murder on the previous evening. He 
sat down, overpowered by the revival of his fear and 
horror. The room swam around him and he grasped 
the edge of the table for support. But he could not stay 
there all day. Any reluctance to make his appearance 
at such a time might be fatal. There was only one way 
to get the necessary courage, and that was to drink again. 
He shrank from the thought. He had not acquired the 
habitual drunkard’s certainty of finding nerve and bold- 
ness and steadiness of hand in the morning draught, and 
the idea of tasting the liquor was loathsome to him in 
his disordered state. He rose to his feet and tried to act 
as though he were in the midst of a crowd of persons. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


375 


Ape-like, lie grinned at the furniture, walked about the 
room, spoke aloud, pretending that he was meeting real 
people, tried to frame sentences expressive of profound 
grief. He opened the door and made a pretence of greet- 
ing an imaginary individual. It was as though a stream 
of cold water had fallen upon his neck. His knees 
knocked together, and he felt sick with fear. There was 
evidently no use in attempting to go down without some 
stimulant. Almost sorrowfully he shut the door again, 
and took the bottle from its place. He took several small 
doses, patiently testing the effect until his hand was 
steady and warm. 

Ten minutes later he was kneeling with many others 
before the catafalque, beneath the great canopy of black. 
He was dazed by the light of the great branches of can- 
dles, and confused by the subdued sound of whispering 
and of softly treading feet ; but he knew that his out- 
ward demeanour was calm and collected, and that he ex- 
hibited no signs of nervousness. San Giacinto was 
standing near one of the doors, having taken his turn 
with the sons of the dead man to remain in the room. 
He watched the librarian and a rough sort of pity made 
itself felt in his heart. 

Poor Meschini ! ” he thought. He has lost a friend. 
I daresay he is more genuinely sorry than all the family 
put together, poor fellow ! ” 

Arnoldo Meschini, kneeling before the body of the man 
he had murdered, with a brandy bottle in the pocket of 
his long coat, would have come to an evil end if the 
giant had guessed the truth. But he looked what he was 
supposed to be, the humble, ill-paid, half-starved libra- 
rian, mourning the master he had faithfully served for 
thirty years. He knelt a long time, his lips moving 
mechanically with the words of an oft-repeated prayer. 
In reality he was afraid to rise from his knees alone, and 
was waiting until some of the others made the first move. 
But the rows of lacqueys, doubtless believing that the 
amount of their future wages would largely depend upon 
the vigour of their present mourning, did not seem in- 
clined to desist from their orisons. To Meschini the 
time was interminable, and his courage was beginning to 
ooze away from him, as the sense of his position acquired 


376 


sant’ ilario. 


a tormenting force. He could have borne it well enough 
in a church, in the midst of a vast congregation, he could 
have fought off his horror even here for a few minutes, 
but to sustain such a part for a quarter of an hour seemed 
almost impossible. He would have given his soul, which 
indeed was just then of but small value, to take a sip of 
courage from the bottle, and his clasped fingers twitched 
nervously, longing to find the way to his pocket. He 
glanced along the line, measuring his position, to see 
whether there was a possibility of drinking without 
being observed, but he saw that it would be madness to 
think of it, and began repeating his prayer with redoubled 
energy, in the hope of distractng his mind. Then a hor- 
rible delusion began to take possession of him; he fan- 
cied that the dead man was beginning to turn his head 
slowly, almost imperceptibly, towards him. Those closed 
eyes would open and look him in the face, a supernatural 
voice would speak his name. As on the previous after- 
noon the cold perspiration began to trickle from his brow. 
He was on the point of crying aloud with terror, when the 
man next to him rose. In an instant he was on his feet. 
Both bent again, crossed themselves, and retired. Mes- 
chini stumbled and caught at his companion’s arm, but 
succeeded in gaining the door. As he passed out, his face 
was so discomposed that San Giacinto looked down upon 
him with increased compassion, then followed him a few 
steps and laid his hand on his shoulder. The librarian 
started violently and stood still. 

‘‘He was a good friend to you. Signor Meschini,” said 
the big man kindly. “ But take heart, you shall not be 
forgotten.” 

The dreaded moment had come, and it had been very 
terrible, but San Giacinto’ s tone was reassuring. He 
could not have suspected anything, though the servants 
said that he was an inscrutable man, profound in his 
thoughts and fearful in his anger. He was the one of 
all the family whom Meschini most feared. 

“ God have mercy on him ! ” whined the librarian, 
trembling to his feet. “ He was the best of men, and is 
no doubt in glory ! ” 

“No doubt,” replied San Giacinto drily. He enter- 
tained opinions of his own upon the subject, and he did 


SANT’ ILARIO. 377 

not like the man’s tone. “ No doubt,” he repeated. “ We 
will try and fulfil his wishes with regard to you.” 

“ Grazie, Eccelenza!” said Meschini with great hu- 
mility, making horns with his fingers behind his back to 
ward off the evil eye, and edging away in the direction 
of the grand staircase. 

San Giacinto returned to the door and paid no more 
attention to him. Then Meschini almost ran down the 
stairs and did not slacken his speed until he found him- 
self in the street. The cold air of the winter’s day re- 
vived him, and he found himself walking rapidly in the 
direction of the Ponte Quattro Capi. He generally took 
that direction when he went out without any especial 
object, for his friend Tiberio Colaisso, the poor apothe- 
cary, had his shop upon the little island of Saint Barthol- 
omew, which is connected with the shores of the river by 
a double bridge, whence the name, “ the birdge of four 
heads.” 

Meschini paused and looked over the parapet at the 
yellow swirling water. The eddies seemed to take queer 
shapes and he watched them for a long time. He had a 
splitting headache, of the kind which is made more pain- 
ful by looking at quickly moving objects, which, at the 
same time, exercise an irresistible fascination over the 
eye. Almost unconsciously he compared his own life to 
the river — turbid, winding, destroying. The simile was 
incoherent, like most of his fancies on that day, but it 
served to express a thought, and he began to feel an odd 
sympathy for the muddy stream, such as perhaps no one 
had ever felt before him. But as he looked he grew 
dizzy, and drew back from the parapet. There must 
have been something strange in his face, for a man who 
was passing looked at him curiously and asked whether 
he were ill. He shook his head with a sickly smile and 
passed on. 

The apothecary was standing idly at his door, waiting 
for a custom that rarely came his way. He was a cadav- 
erous man, about fifty years of age, with eyes of an un- 
certain colour set deep in his head. An ill-kept, grizzled 
beard descended upon his chest, and gave a certain wild- 
ness to his appearance. A very shabby green smoking 
cap, trimmed with tarnished silver lace, was set far back 


378 


sant’ ilario. 


upon his head, displaying a wrinkled forehead, much 
heightened by baldness, but of proportions that denoted 
a large and active brain. That he took snuff in great 
quantities was apparent. Otherwise he was neither very 
dirty nor very clean, but his thumbs had that peculiar 
shape which seems to be the result of constantly rolling 
pills. Meschini stopped before him. 

“Sor Arnoldo, good-day,” said the chemist, scrutinis- 
ing his friend’s face curiously. 

“ Good-day, Sor Tiberio, ” replied the librarian. Will 
you let me come in for a little moment? ” There seemed 
to be an attempt at a jest in the question, for the apothe- 
cary almost smiled. 

^‘Padrone,” he said, retiring backwards through the 
narrow door. ‘‘A game of scopa to-day?-” 

^‘Have you the time to spare?” inquired the other, in 
a serious tone. They always maintained the myth that 
Tiberio Colaisso was a very busy man. 

“To-day,” answered the latter, without a smile, and 
emphasising the word as though it defined an exception, 
“to-day, I have nothing to do. Besides, it is early.” 

“ We can play a hand and then we can dine at Cicco’s.” 

“Being Friday in Advent, I had intended to fast,” 
replied the apothecary, who had not a penny in his 
pocket. “ But since you are so good as to invite me, I do 
not say no.” 

Meschini said nothing, for he understood the situa- 
tion, which was by no means a novel one. His friend 
produced a pack of Italian cards, almost black with age. 
He gave Meschini the only chair, and seated himself 
upon a three-legged stool. 

It was a dismal scene. The shop was like many of its 
kind in the poorer quarters of old Rome. There was 
room for the counter and for three people to stand before 
it when the door was shut. The floor was covered with 
a broken pavement of dingy bricks. As the two men 
began to play a fine, drizzling rain wet the silent street 
outside, and the bricks within at once exhibited an unc- 
tuous moisture. The sky had become cloudy after the 
fine morning, and there was little light in the shop. 
Three of the walls were hidden by cases with glass doors, 
containing an assortment of majolica jars which would 


sant’ ilario. 


879 


delight a modern amateur, but which looked dingy and 
mean in the poor shop. Here and there, between them, 
stood bottles large and small, some broken and dusty, 
others filled with liquids and bearing paper labels, broVn 
with age, the ink inscriptions fading into the dirty surface 
that surrounded them. The only things in the place which 
looked tolerably clean were the little brass scales and the 
white marble tablet for compounding solid medicines. 

The two men looked as though they belonged to the 
little room. Meschini’s yellow complexion was as much 
in keeping with the surroundings as the chemist’s gray, 
colourless face. His bloodshot eyes wandered from the 
half-defaced cards to the objects in the shop, and he was 
uncertain in his play. His companion looked at him as 
though he were trying to solve some intricate problem 
that gave him trouble. He himself was a man who, like 
the librarian, had begun life under favourable circum- 
stances, had studied medicine and had practised it. But 
he had been unfortunate, and, though talented, did not 
possess the qualifications most necessary for his profes- 
sion. He had busied himself with chemistry and had 
invented a universal panacea which had failed, and in 
which he had sunk most of his small capital. Disgusted 
with his reverses he had gravitated slowly to his present 
position. -Finding him careless and indifferent to their 
wants, his customers had dropped away, one by one, until 
he earned barely enough to keep body and soul together. 
Only the poorest class of people, emboldened by the mean 
aspect of his shop, came in to get a plaster, an ointment 
or a black draught, at the lowest possible prices. And 
yet, in certain branches, Tiber io Colaisso was a learned 
man. At all events he had proved himself able to do all 
that Meschini asked of him. He was keen, too, in an 
indolent way, and a single glance had satisfied him that 
something very unusual had happened to the librarian. 
He watched him patiently, hoping to find out the truth 
without questions. At the same time, the hope of win- 
ning a few coppers made him keep an eye on the game. 
To his surprise he won easily, and he was further aston- 
ished when he saw that the miserly Meschini was not 
inclined to complain of his losses nor to accuse him of 
cheating. ' 


380 


sant’ ilaeio. 


“You are not lucky to-day,” he remarked at last, when 
his winnings amounted to a couple of pauls — a modern 
franc in all. 

Meschini looked at him uneasily and wiped his brow, 
leaning back in the rickety chair. His hands were trem- 
bling. 

“No,” he answered. “I am not quite myself to-day. 
The fact is that a most dreadful tragedy occurred in our 
house last night, the mere thought of which gives me the 
fever. I am even obliged to take a little stimulant from 
time to time.” 

So saying, he drew the bottle from his pocket and ap- 
plied it to his lips. He had hoped that it would not be 
necessary, but he was unable to do without it very long, 
his nerves being broken down by the quantity he had 
taken on the previous night. Colaisso looked on in 
silence, more puzzled than ever. The librarian seemed 
to be revived by the dose, and spoke more cheerfully 
after it. ' 

“A most terrible tragedy,” he said. “The prince was 
murdered yesterday afternoon. I could not speak of it to 
you at once.” 

“ Murdered? ” exclaimed the apothecary in amazement. 
“ And by whom? ” 

“That is the mystery. He was found dead in his 
study. I will tell you all I know.” 

Meschini communicated the story to his friend in a 
disjointed fashion, interspersing his narrative with many 
comments intended to give himself courage to proceed. 
He told the tale with evident reluctance, but he could 
not avoid the necessity. If Tiberio Colaisso read the 
account in the paper that evening, as he undoubtedly 
would, he would wonder why his companion had not 
been the first to relate the catastrophe ; and this wonder 
might turn into a suspicion. It would have been better 
not to come to the apothecary’s, but since he found him- 
self there he could not escape from informing him of 
what had happened. 

“It is very strange,” said the chemist, when he had 
heard all. Meschini thought he detected a disagreeable 
look in his eyes. 

“It is, indeed,” he answered. “I am made ill by it. 
See how my hand trembles. I am cold and hot.” 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


381 


^‘You have been drinking too much,” said Colaisso . 
suddenly, and with a certain brutality that startled his 
friend. You are not sober. You must have taken a 
great deal last night. A libation to the dead, I suppose, 
in the manner of the ancients.” 

Meschini winced visibly and began to shuffle the cards, 
while he attempted to smile to hide his embarrassment. 

‘‘ I was not well yesterday — at least — I do not know 
what was the matter — a headache, I think, nothing 
more. And then, this awful catastrophe — horrible ! My 
nerves are unstrung. I can scarcely speak.” 

^‘You need sleep first, and then a tonic.” said the 
apothecary in a business-like tone. 

“ I slept until late this morning. It did me no good. 

I am half dead myself. Yes, if I could sleep again it 
might do me good.” 

“ Go home and go to bed. If I were in your place I 
would not drink any more of that liquor. It will only 
make you worse.” 

Give me something to make me sleep. I will take it.” 

The apothecary looked long at him and seemed to be 
weighing something in his judgment. An evil thought 
crossed his mind. He was very poor. He knew well 
enough, in spite of Meschini’s protestations, that he was 
not so poor as he pretended to be. If he were he could 
not have paid so regularly for the chemicals and for the 
experiments necessary to the preparation of his inks. 
More than once the operations had proved to be expen- 
sive, but the librarian had never complained, though he 
haggled for a baiocco over his dinner at Cicco’s wine 
shop, and was generally angry when he lost a paul at 
cards. He had money somewhere. It was evident that 
he was in a highly nervous state. If he could be induced 
to take opium once or twice it might become a habit. 
To sell opium was very profitable, and Colaisso knew 
well enough the power of the vice and the proportions 
it would soon assume, especially if Meschini thought 
the medicine contained only some harmless drug. 

“Very well,” said the apothecary. “I will make you 
a draught. But you must be sure that you are ready to 
sleep when you take it. Il acts very quickly.” 

The draught which Meschini carried home with him 


382 


sant’ ilario. 


was nothing but weak landanum and water. It looked 
innocent enough in the little glass bottle labelled “ Sleep- 
ing potion.’^ But the effect of it, as Colaisso had told 
him, was very rapid. Exhausted by all he had suffered, 
the librarian closed the windows of his room and lay 
down to rest. In a quarter of an hour he was in a heavy 
sleep. In his dreams he was happier than he had ever 
been before. The whole world seemed to be his, to use 
as he pleased. He was transformed into a magnificent 
being such as he had never imagined in his waking hours. 
He passed from one scene of splendour to another, from 
glory to glory, ' surrounded by forms of beauty, by 
showers of golden light in a beatitude beyond all descrip- 
tion. It was as though he had suddenly become emperor 
of the whole universe. He floated through wondrous 
regions of soft colour, and strains of divine music 
sounded in his ears. Gentle hands carried him with an 
easy swaying motion to transcendent heights, where every 
breath he drew was like a draught of sparkling life. His 
whole being was filled with something which he knew was 
happiness, until he felt as though he could not contain 
the overflowing joy. At one moment he glided beyond 
the clouds through a gorgeous sunset; at another he was 
lying on a soft invisible couch, looking out to the bright 
distance — distance that never ended, never could end, 
but the contemplation of which was rapture, the greater 
for being inexplicable. An exquisite new sense was in 
him, corresponding to no bodily instinct, but rejoicing 
wildly in something that could not be defined, nor under- 
stood, nor measured, but only felt. 

At last he began to descend, slowly at first and then 
with increasing speed, till he grew giddy and unconscious 
in the fall. He awoke and uttered a cry of terror. It 
was night, and he was alone in the dark. He was chilled 
to the bone, too, and his head was heavy, but the dark- 
ness was unbearable, and though he would gladly have 
slept again he dared not remain an instant without a 
light. He groped about for his matches, found them, 
and lit a candle. A neighbouring clock tolled out the 
hour of midnight, and the sound of the bells terrified 
him beyond measure. Cold, fniserable, in an agony of 
fear, his nervousness doubled by the opium and by a need 


sant’ ilario. 


383 


of food of whicli he was not aware, there was but one 
remedy within his reach. The sleeping potion had been 
calculated for one occasion only, and it was all gone. He 
tried to drain a few drops from the phial, and a drowsy, 
half-sickening odour rose from it to his nostrils. But 
there was nothing left, nothing but the brandy, and little 
more than half a bottle of that. It was enough for his 
present need, however, and more than enough. He 
drank greedily, for he was parched with thirst, though 
hardly conscious of the fact. Then he slept till morn- 
ing. But when he opened his eyes he was conscious that 
he was in a worse state than on the previous day. He 
was not only nervous but exhausted, and it was with 
feeble steps that he made his way to his friend’s shop, 
in order to procure a double dose of the sleeping mix- 
ture. If he could sleep through the twenty-four hours, 
he thought, so as not to wake up in the dead of night, he 
should be better. Wlien he made his appearance Tiberio 
Colaisso knew what he wanted, and although he had 
half repented of what he had done, the renewed possi- 
bility of selling the precious drug was a temptation he 
could not withstand. 

One day succeeded another, and each morning saw 
Arnoldo Meschini crossing the Ponte Quattro Capi on 
his way to the apothecary’s. In the ordinary course of 
human nature a man does not become an opium-eater in 
a day, nor even, perhaps, in a week, but to the librarian 
the narcotic became a necessity almost from the first. 
Its action, combined with incessant doses of alcohol, was 
destructive, but the man’s constitution was stronger than 
would have been believed. He possessed, moreover, a 
great power of controlling his features when he was not 
assailed by supernatural fears, and so it came about that, 
living almost in solitude, no one in the Palazzo Monte- 
varchi was aware of his state. It was bad enough, 
indeed, for when he was not under the influence of brandy 
he was sleeping from the effects of opium. In three days 
he was willing to pay anything the apothecary asked, 
and seemed scarcely conscious of the payments he made. 
He kept up a show of playing the accustomed game of 
cards, but he was absent-minded, and was not even 
angry at his daily losses. The apothecary had more 


384 


sant’ ilario. 


money in his pocket than he had possessed for many a 
day. As Arnoldo Meschini sank deeper and deeper, the 
chemist’s spirits rose, and he began to assume an air of 
unwonted prosperity. One of the earliest results of the 
librarian’s degraded condition was that Tiberio Colaisso 
procured himself a new green smoking cap ornamented 
profusely with fresh silver lace. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Sant’ Ilario had guessed rightly that the place of 
safety and secrecy to which he was to be conveyed was 
no other than the Holy Office, or prison of the Inquisi- 
tion. He was familiar with the interior of the building, 
and knew that it contained none of the horrors generally 
attributed to it, so that, on the whole, he was well satis- 
fied with the cardinal’s choice. The cell to which he 
was conveyed after dark was a large room on the second 
story, comfortably furnished and bearing no sign of its 
use but the ornamented iron grating that filled the win- 
dow. The walls were not thicker than those of most 
Roman palaces, and the chamber was dry and airy, and 
sufficiently warmed by a huge brazier of coals. It was 
clear from the way in which he was treated that the 
cardinal relied upon his honour more than upon any use 
of force in order to keep him in custody. A silent 
individual in a black coat had brought him in a carriage 
to the great entrance, whence a man of similar discretion 
and of like appearance had conducted him to his cell. 
This person returned soon afterwards, bringing a suffi- 
cient meal of fish and vegetables — it was Friday — 
decently cooked and almost luxuriously served. An 
hour later the man came back to carry away what was 
left. He asked whether the prisoner needed anything 
else for the night. 

would like to know,” said Giovanni, ^‘whether any 
of my friends will be allowed to see me, if I ask it.” 

“ I am directed to say that any request or complaint 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


385 


you have to make will be transmitted to his Eminence by 
a special messenger,” answered the man. ‘^Anything,” 
he added in explanation, “beyond what concerns your 
personal comfort. In this respect I am at liberty to give 
you whatever you desire, within reason.” 

“Thank you. I will endeavour to be reasonable,” 
replied Giovanni. “ I am much obliged to you.” 

The man left the room and closed the door softly, so 
softly that the prisoner wondered whether he had turned 
the key. On examining the panels he saw, however, 
that they were smooth and not broken by any latch or 
keyhole. The spring was on the outside, and there was 
no means whatever of opening the door from within. 

Giovanni wondered why a special messenger was to 
be employed to carry any request he made directly to the- 
cardinal. The direction could not have been given idly, 
nor was it without some especial reason that he was at 
once told of it. Assuredly his Eminence was not expect- 
ing the prince to repent of his bargain and to send word 
that he wished to be released. The idea was absurd. 
The great man might suppose, however, that Giovanni 
would desire to send some communication to his wife, 
who would naturally be anxious about his absence. 
Against this contingency, however, Sant^ Ilario had pro- 
vided by means of the note he had despatched to her. 
Several days would elapse before she began to expect 
him, so that he had plenty of time to reflect upon his 
future course. Meanwhile he resolved to ask for noth- 
ing. Indeed, he had no requirements. He had money 
in his pockets and could send the attendant to buy any 
linen he needed without getting it from his home. 

He was in a state of mind in which nothing could have 
pleased him better than solitary imprisonment. He felt 
at once a sense of rest and a freedom from all responsi- 
bility that soothed his nerves and calmed his thoughts. 
For many days he had lived in a condition bordering on 
madness. Every interview with Corona was a disap- 
pointment, and brought with it a new suffering. Much 
as he would have dreaded the idea of being separated 
from her for any length of time, the temporary impossi- 
bility of seeing her was now a relief, of which he realised 
the importance more and more as the hours succeeded 


386 


sant’ ilario. 


each other. There are times when nothing but a forci- 
ble break in the current of our lives can restore the mind 
to its normal balance. Such a break, painful as it may 
be at first, brings with it the long lost power of rest. 
Instead of feeling the despair we expect, we are amazed 
at our own indifference, which again is succeeded by a 
renewed capacity for judging facts as they are, and by a 
new energy to mould our lives upon a better plan. 

Giovanni neither reflected upon his position nor brooded 
over the probable result of his actions. On the contrary, 
he went to bed and slept soundly, like a strong man tired 
out with bodily exertion. He slept so long that his 
attendant at last woke him, entering and opening the 
window. The morning was fine, and the sun streamed 
in through the iron grating. Giovanni looked about him, 
and realised where he was. He felt calm and strong, 
and was inclined to laugh at the idea tliat his rashness 
would have any dangerous consequences. Corona doubt- 
less was already awake too, and supposed that he was in 
the country shooting wild boar, or otherwise amusing 
himself. Instead of that he was in prison. There was 
no denying the fact, after all, but it was strange that he 
should not care to be at liberty. He had heard of the 
moral sufferings of men who are kept in confinement. 
Ho matter how well they are treated they grow nervous 
and careworn and haggard, wearing themselves out in a 
perpetual longing for freedom. Giovanni, on the contrary, 
as he looked round the bright, airy room, felt that he 
might inhabit it for a year without once caring to go out 
into the world. A few books to read, the means of writ- 
ing if he pleased — he needed nothing else. To be alone 
was happiness enough. 

He ate his breakfast slowly, and sat down in an old- 
fashioned chair to smoke a cigarette and bask in the sun- 
shine while it lasted. It was not much like prison, and 
he did not feel like a man arrested for murder. He was 
conscious for a long time of nothing but a vague, peace- 
ful contentment. He had given a list of things to be 
bought, including a couple of novels, to the man who 
waited upon him, and after a few hours everything was 
brought. The day passed tranquilly, and when he went 
to bed he smiled as he blew out the candle, partly at 
himself and partly at his situation. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 387 

“My friends will not say that I am absolutely lacking 
in originality/’ he reflected as he went to sleep. 

On the morrow he read less and thought more. In the 
first place he wondered how long he should be left with- 
out any communication from the outside world. He 
wondered whether any steps had been taken towards 
bringing him to a trial, or whether the cardinal really 
knew that he was innocent, and was merely making him 
act out the comedy he had himself invented and begun. 
He was not impatient, but he was curious to know the 
truth. It was now the third day since he had seen 
Corona, and he had not prepared her for a long absence. 
If he heard nothing during the next twenty-four hours it 
would be better to take some measures for relieving her 
anxiety, if she felt any. The latter reflection, which 
presented itself suddenly, startled him a little. Was it 
possible that she would allow a week to slip by without 
expecting to hear from him or asking herself where he 
was? That was out of the question. He admitted the 
impossibility of such indifference, almost in spite of 
himself. He was willing, perhaps, to think her utterly 
heartless rather than accept the belief in an affection 
which went no farther than to hope that he might be 
safe; but his vanity or his intuition, it matters little 
which of the two, told him that Corona felt more than 
that. And yet she did not love him. He sat for many 
hours, motionless in his chair, trying to construct the 
future out of the past, an effort of imagination in which 
he failed signally. The peace of his solitude was less 
satisfactory to him than at first, and he began to suspect 
that before very long he might even wish to return to 
the world. Possibly Corona might come to see him. 
The cardinal would perhaps think it best to tell her what 
had happened. How would he tell it? Would he let 
her know all? The light faded from the room, and the 
attendant brought his evening meal and set two candles 
upon the table. 

Hitherto it could not be said that he had suffered. On 
the contrary, his character had regained its tone after 
weeks of depression. Another day was ended, and he 
went to rest, but he slept less soundly than before, and 
on the following morning he av/oke early. The monot- 


388 


sant’ ilario. 


ony of the existence struck him all at once in its reality. 
The fourth day would he like the third, and, for all he 
knew, hundreds to come would be like the fourth if it 
pleased his Eminence to keep him a prisoner. Corona 
would certainly never suspect that he was shut up in the 
Holy Office, and if she did, she might not be able to 
come to him. Even if she came, what could he say to 
her? That he had committed a piece of outrageous folly 
because he was annoyed at her disbelief in him or at her 
coldness. He had probably made himself ridiculous for 
the first time in his life. The thought was the reverse 
of consoling. Nor did it contribute to his peace of mind 
to know that if he had made himself a laughing-stock, 
the cardinal, who dreaded ridicule, would certainly re- 
fuse to play a part in his comedy, and would act with 
all the rigour suitable to so grave a situation. He might 
even bring his prisoner to trial. Giovanni would submit 
to that, rather than be laughed at, but the alternative 
now seemed an appalling one. In his disgust of life on 
that memorable morning he had cared nothing what 
became of him, and had been in a state which precluded 
all just appreciation of the future. His enforced solitude 
had restored his faculties. He desired nothing less than 
to be tried for murder, because he had taken a short cut 
to satisfy his wife’s caprice. But that caprice had for 
its object the liberty of poor Faustina Montevarchi. At 
all events, if he had made himself ridiculous, the ultimate 
purpose of his folly had been good, and had been acccom- 
plished. 

All through the afternoon he paced his room, alter- 
nately in a state of profound dissatisfaction with himself, 
and in a condition of anxious curiosity about coming 
events. He scarcely touched his food or noticed the 
attendant who entered half a dozen times to perform his 
various offices. Again the night closed in, and once more 
he lay down to sleep, dreading the morning, and hoping 
to lose himself in dreams. The fourth day was like the 
third, indeed, as far as his surroundings were concerned, 
but he had not foreseen that he would be a prey to such 
gnawing anxiety as he suffered, still less, perhaps, that 
he should grow almost desperate for a sight of Corona. 
He was not a man who made any exhibition of his feel- 


sant’ ilario. 


389 


ings even when he was alone. But the man who served 
him noticed that when he entered Giovanni was never 
reading, as he had always been doing at first. He was 
either walking rapidly up and down or sitting idly in the 
big chair by the window. His face was quiet and pale, 
even solemn at times. The attendant was doubtless accus- 
tomed to sudden changes of mood in his prisoners, for he 
appeared to take no notice of the alteration in Giovanni’s 
manner. 

It seemed as though the day would never end. To a 
man of his active strength to walk about a room is not 
exercise; it hardly seems like motion at all, and yet 
Giovanni found it harder and harder to sit still as the 
hours wore on. After an interval of comparative peace, 
his love for Corona had overwhelmed him again, and 
with tenfold force. To be shut up in a cell without the 
possibility of seeing her, was torture such as he had 
never dreamt of in his whole life. By a strange revul- 
sion of feeling it appeared to him that by taking her so 
suddenly at her word he had again done her an injustice. 
The process of reasoning by which he arrived at this con- 
clusion was not clear to himself, and probably could not 
be made intelligible to any one else. He had assuredly 
sacrificed himself unhesitatingly, and at first the action 
had given him pleasure. But this was destroyed by the 
thought of the possible consequences. He asked whether 
he had the right to satisfy her imperative demand for 
Faustina’s freedom by doing that which might possibly 
cause her annoyance, even though it should bring no 
serious injury to any one.. The time passed very slowly, 
and towards evening he began to feel as he had felt 
before he had taken the fatal step which had placed him 
beyond Corona’s reach, restless, miserable, desperate. 
At last it was night, and he was sitting before his soli- 
tary meal, eating hardly anything, staring half uncon- 
sciously at the closed window opposite. 

The door opened softly, but he did not look round, 
supposing the person entering to be the attendant. 
Suddenly, there was the rustle of a woman’s dress in 
the room, and at the same moment the door was shut. 
He sprang to his feet, stood still a moment, and then 
uttered a cry of surprise. Corona stood beside him, 


390 


sant’ ilario. 


very pale, looking into his eyes. She had worn a thick 
veil, and on coming in had thrown it hack upon her head 
— the veils of those days were long and heavy, and fell 
about the head and neck like a drapery. 

“Corona!” Giovanni cried, stretching out his hands 
towards her. Something, in her face prevented him from 
throwing his arms round her, something not like her 
usual coldness and reproachful look that kept him back. 

“Giovanni — was it kind to leave me so?” she asked, 
without moving from her place. 

The question corresponded so closely with his own 
feelings that he had anticipated it, though he had no 
answer ready. She knew all, and was hurt by what he 
had done. What could he say? The reasons that had 
sent him so boldly into danger no longer seemed even 
sufficient for an excuse. The happiness he had antici- 
pated in seeing her had vanished almost before it had 
made itself felt. His first emotion was bitter anger 
against the cardinal. No one else could have told her, 
for no one else knew what he had done nor where he was. 
Giovanni thought, and with reason, that the great man 
might have spared his wife such a blow. 

“ I believed I was doing what was best when I did it,” 
he answered, scarcely knowing what to say. 

“ Was it best to leave me without a word, except a 
message of excuse for others?” 

“ For you — was it not better? For me — what does it 
matter? Should I be happier anywhere else?” 

“Have I driven you from your home, Giovanni?” 
asked Corona, with a strange look in her dark eyes. Her 
voice trembled. 

“No, not you,” he answered, turning away and begin- 
ning to walk up and down by the force of the habit he 
had acquired during the last two or three days. “Not 
you,” he repeated more than once in a bitter tone. 

Corona sank down upon the chair he had left, and 
buried her face in her hands, as though overcome by a 
great and sudden grief. Giovanni stopped before her 
and looked at her, not clearly understanding what was 
passing in her mind. 

“Why are you so sorry?” he asked. “Has a separa- 
tion of a few days changed you? Are you sorry for me? ” 


SANT’ ILAPwIO. 


391 


“Why did you come here?” she exclaimed, instead 
of answering his question. “Why here, of all places?” 

“I had no choice. The cardinal decided the matter 
for me.” 

“The cardinal? Why do you confide in him? You 
never did before. I may be wrong, but I do not trust 
him, kind as he has always been. If you wanted advice, 
you might have gone to Padre Filippo ” 

“Advice? I do not understand you. Corona.” 

“ Did you not go to the cardinal and tell him that you 
were very unhappy and wanted to make a retreat in some 
quiet place where nobody could find you? And did he 
not advise you to come here, promising to keep your 
secret, and authorising you to stay as long as you pleased? 
That is what he told me.” 

“ He told you that? ” cried Giovanni in great astonish- 
ment. 

“Yes — that and nothing more. He came to see me 
late this afternoon. He said that he feared lest I should 
be anxious about your long absence, and that he thought 
himself justified in telling me where you were and in 
giving me a pass, in case I wanted to see you. Besides, 
if it is not all as he says, how did you come here?” 

“You do not know the truth? You do not know what 
I did? You do not guess why I am in the Holy Office?” 

“I know only what he told me,” answered Corona, 
surprised by Giovanni’s questions. 

But Giovanni gave no immediate explanation. He 
paced the floor in a state of excitement in which she had 
never seen him, clasping and unclasping his fingers ner- 
vously, and uttering short, incoherent exclamations. As 
she watched him a sensation of fear crept over her, but 
she did not ask him any question. He stopped suddenly 
again. 

“ You do not know that I am in prison? ” 

“ In prison ! ” She rose with a sharp cry and seized 
his hands in hers. 

“ Do not be frightened, dear, ” he said in an altered 
tone. “ I am perfectly innocent. After all, you know 
it is a prison.” 

“ Ah, Giovanni ! ” she exclaimed reproachfully, “ how 
could you say such a dreadful thing, even in jest? ” She _ 


392 


sant’ ilario. 


had dropped his hands again, and drew back a step as 
she spoke. 

‘‘ It is not a jest. It is earnest. Do not start. I will 
tell yon just what happened. It is best, after all. 
When I left you at the Termini, I saw that you had set 
your heart on liberating poor Faustina. I could not find 
any way of accomplishing what you desired, and I saw 
that you thought I was not doing my best for her free- 
dom. I went directly to the cardinal and gave myself 
up in her place.” 

‘‘As a hostage — a surety?” asked Corona, breath- 
lessly. 

“No. He would not have accepted that, for he was 
prejudiced against her. I gave myself up as the mur- 
derer.” 

He spoke quite calmly, as though he had been narrat- 
ing a commonplace occurrence. For an instant she stood 
before him, dumb and horror-struck. Then with a great 
heart-broken cry she threw her arms round him and 
clasped him passionately to her breast. 

“ My beloved ! My beloved ! ” 

For some moments she held him so closely that he 
could neither move nor see her face, but the beating of 
his heart told him that a great change had in that instant 
come over his life. The cry had come from her soul, 
irresistibly, spontaneously. There was an accent in the 
two words she repeated which he had never hoped to 
hear again. He had expected that she would reproach 
him for his madness. Instead of that, his folly had 
awakened the love that was not dead, though it had been 
so desperately wounded. 

Presently she drew back a little and looked into his 
eyes, a fierce deep light burning in her own. 

“ I love you, ” she said, almost under her breath. 

A wonderful smile passed over his face, illuminating 
the dark, stern lines of it like a ray of heavenly light. 
Then the dusky eyelids slowly closed, as though by their 
own weight, his head fell back, and his lips turned 
white. She felt the burden of his body in her arms, and 
but for her strength he would have fallen to the floor. 
She reeled on her feet, holding him still, and sank down 
until she knelt and his head rested on her knee. Her 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


393 


heart stood still as she listened for the sound of his faint 
breathing. Had his unconsciousness lasted longer she 
would have fainted herself. But in a moment his eyes 
opened again with an expression such as she had seen in 
them once or twice before, but in a less degree. 

‘‘ Cororfa — it is too much ! ’’ he said softly, almost 
dreamily. Then his strength returned in an instant, like 
a strong steel bow that has been bent almost to breaking. 
He scarcely knew how it was that the position was 
changed so that he was standing on his feet and clasping 
her as she had clasped him. Her tears were flowing fast, 
but there was more joy in them than pain. 

“How could you do it?” she asked at length, looking 
up. “And oh, Giovanni! what will be the end of it? 
Will not something dreadful happen?” 

“ What does anything matter now, darling?” 

At last they sat down together, hand in hand, as of 
old. It was as though the last two months had been 
suddenly blotted out. As Giovanni said, nothing could 
matter now. And yet the situation was far from clear. 
Giovanni understood well enough that the cardinal had 
wished to leave him the option of telling his wife what 
had occurred, and, if he chose to do so, of telling her in 
his own language. He was grateful for the tact the 
statesman had displayed, a tact which seemed also to 
show Giovanni the cardinal’s views of the case. He 
had declared that he was desperate. The cardinal had 
concluded that he was unhappy. He had said that he 
did not care what became of him. The cardinal had 
supposed that he would be glad to be alone, or at all 
events that it would be good for him to have a certain 
amount of solitude. If his position were in any way 
dangerous, the great man would surely not have thought 
of sending Corona to his prisoner as he had done. He 
would have prepared her himself against any shock. 
And yet he was undeniably in prison, with no immediate 
prospect of liberty. 

“You cannot stay here any longer,” said Corona when 
they were at last able to talk of the immediate future. 

“ I do not see how I am to get out, ” Giovanni answered, 
with a smile. 

“ I will go to the cardinal ” 


394 


sant’ ilario; 


It is of no use. He probably guesses the truth, but 
he is not willing to be made ridiculous by me or by any 
one. He will keep me here until there can be a trial, 
or until he finds the real culprit. He is obstinate. I 
know him.” 

‘‘It is impossible that he should think of such a 
thing! ” exclaimed Corona indignantly. 

“ I am afraid it is very possible. But, of course, it is 
only a matter of time — a few days at the utmost. If 
worst comes to worst I can demand an inquiry, I sup- 
pose, though I do not see how I can proclaim my own 
innocence without hurting Faustina. She was liberated 
because I put myself in her place — it is rather compli- 
cated.” 

“ Tell me, Giovanni, ” said Corona, “ what did you say 
to the cardinal? You did not really say that you mur- 
dered Montevarchi?” 

“ No. I said I gave myself up as the murderer, and I 
explained how I might have done the deed. I did more, 
I pledged my honour that Faustina was innocent.” 

“ But you were not sure of it yourself ” 

“ Since you had told me it was true, I believed it, ” he 
answered simply. 

“ Thank you, dear ” 

“No. Do not thank me for it. I could not help 
myself. I knew that you were sure — are you sure of 
something else. Corona? Are you as certain as you were 
of that?” 

“How can you ask? But you are right — you have 
the right to doubt me. You will not, though, will you? 
Hear me, dear, while I tell you the whole story.” 

She slipped from her chair and knelt before him, as 
though she were to make a confession. Then she took 
his hands and looked up lovingly into his face. The 
truth rose in her eyes. 

“Forgive me, Giovanni. Yes, you have much to for- 
give. I did not know myself. When you doubted me, I 
felt as though I had nothing left in life, as though you 
would never again believe in me. I thought I did not 
love you. I was wrong. It was only my miserable 
vanity that was wounded, and that hurt me so. I felt 
that my love was dead, that you yourself were dead and 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


395 


that another man had taken your place. Ah, I could 
have helped it! Had I known yon better, dear, had I 
been less mistaken in myself, all would have been differ- ’ 
ent. But I was foolish — no, I was unhappy. Every- 
thing was dark and dreadful. Oh, my darling, I thought 
I could tell what I felt — I cannot! Eorgive me, only 
forgive me, and love me as you did long ago. I will 
never leave you, not if you stay here for ever, only let 
me love you as I will ! ” 

‘Ht is not for me to forgive, sweetheart,” said Gio- 
vanni, bending down and kissing her sweet dark hair. 

It is for you ” 

But I would so much rather think it my fault, dear, ” 
she answered, drawing his face down to hers. It was a 
very womanly impulse that made her take the blame 
upon herself. 

“ You must not think anything so unreasonable. Corona. 
I brought all the harm that came, from the first moment.” 

He would have gone on to accuse himself, obstinate 
and manlike, recapitulating the whole series of events. 
But she would not let him. Once more she sat beside 
him and held his hand in hers. They talked incoher- 
ently and it is not to be wondered at if they arrived at 
no very definite conclusion after a very long conversation. 
They were still sitting together when the attendant 
entered and presented Giovanni with a large sealed 
letter, bearing the Apostolic arms, and addressed merely 
to the number of Giovanni’s cell. 

“ There is an answer, ” said the man, and then left the 
room. 

“ It is probably the notice of the trial, or something of 
the kind,” observed Giovanni, suddenly growing very 
grave as he broke the seal. He wished it might have 
come at any other time than the present. Corona held 
her breath and watched his face while he read the lines 
written upon one of the two papers he took from the 
envelope. Suddenly the colour came to his cheeks and 
his eyes brightened with a look of happiness and sur- 
prise. 

am free!” he cried, as he finished. “Free if I 
will sign this paper! Of course I will! I will sign 
anything he likes.” 


,396 


sant’ ilaeio. 


The envelope contained a note from the cardinal, in 
his own hand, to the effect that suspicion had fallen upon 
another person and that Giovanni was at liberty to return 
to his home if he would sign the accompanying docu- 
ment. The latter was very short, and set forth that 
Giovanni Saracinesca bound himself upon his word to 
appear in the trial of the murderer of Prince Monte- 
varchi, if called upon to do so, and not to leave Pome 
until the matter was finally concluded and set at rest. 

He took the pen that lay on the table and signed his 
name in a broad firm hand, a fact the more notable 
because Corona was leaning over his shoulder, watching 
the characters as he traced them. He folded the paper 
and placed it in the open envelope which accompanied it. 
The cardinal was a man of details. He thought it possi- 
ble that the document might be returned open for lack 
of the means to seal it. He did not choose that his 
secrets should become the property of the people about 
the Holy Office. It was a specimen of his forethought 
in small things which might have an influence upon 
great ones. 

When Giovanni had finished, he rose and stood beside 
Corona. Each looked into the other’s eyes and for a 
moment neither saw very clearly. They said little 
more, however, until the attendant entered again. 

“You are at liberty,” he said briefly, and without a 
word began to put together the few small things that 
belonged to his late prisoner. 

Half an hour later Giovanni was seated at dinner at 
his father’s table. The old gentleman greeted him with 
a half-savage growl of satisfaction. 

“ The prodigal has returned to get a meal while there 
is one to be had,” he remarked. “I thought you had 
gone to Paris to leave the agreeable settlement of our 
affairs to Corona and me. Where the devil have you 
been?” 

“ I have been indulging in the luxury of a retreat in 
a religious house,” answered Giovanni with perfect truth. 

Corona glanced at him and both laughed happily, as 
they had not laughed for many days and weeks. Sara- 
cinesca looked incredulously across the table at his son. 

“You chose a singular moment for your devotional 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


397 


exercises,” he said. “Where will piety hide herself 
next, I wonder? As long as Corona is satisfied, I am. 
It is her business.” 

“ I am perfectly satisfied, I assure you, ” said Corona, 
whose black eyes were full of light. 

Giovanni raised his glass, looked at her and smiled 
lovingly. Then he emptied it to the last drop and set 
it down without a word. 

“Some secret, I suppose,” said the old gentleman 
gruffly. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Arnoldo Meschini was not, perhaps, insane in the 
ordinary sense of the word; that is to say, he would 
probably have recovered the normal balance of his facul- 
ties if he could have been kept from narcotics and 
stimulants, and if he could have been relieved from the 
distracting fear of discovery which tormented him when 
he was not under the influence of one or the other. But 
the latter condition was impossible, and it was the 
extremity of his terror which almost forced him to keep 
his, brain in a clouded state. People have been driven 
mad by sudden fright, and have gradually lost their 
intellect through the constant presence of a fear from 
which there is no escape. , A man who is perpetually 
producing an unnatural state of his mind by swallowing 
doses of brandy and opium may not be insane in theory ; 
in actual fact, he may be a dangerous madman. As one 
day followed another Meschini found it more and more 
impossible to exist without his two comforters. The 
least approach to lucidity made him almost frantic. He 
fancied every man a spy, every indifferent glance a look 
full of meaning. Before long the belief took possession 
of him that he was to be made the victim of some horri- 
ble private vengeance. San Giacinto was not the man, 
he thought, to be contented with sending him to the 
galleys for life. Few murderers were executed in those 
days, and it would be a small satisfaction to the Monte- 


398 


sant’ ilario. 


varclii to know that Arnoldo had merely been transferred 
from bis study of the library catalogue to the breaking 
of stones with a chain gang at Civitavecchia. It was 
more likely that they would revenge themselves more 
effectually. His disordered imagination saw horrible 
visions. San Giacinto might lay a trap for him, might 
simply come at dead of night and take him from his 
room to some deep vault beneath the palace. What could 
he do against such a giant? He fancied himself before 
a secret tribunal in the midst of which towered San 
Giacinto’s colossal figure. He could hear the deep voice 
he dreaded pronouncing his doom. He was to be torn 
to shreds piecemeal, burnt by a slow fire, flayed alive by 
those enormous hands. There was no conceivable horror 
of torture that did not suggest itself to him at such 
times. It is true that when he went to bed at night he 
was generally either so stupefied by opium or so intoxi- 
cated with strong drink that he forgot even to lock his 
door. But during the day he was seldom so far under 
the power of either as not to suffer from his own hideous 
imaginings. One day, as he dragged his slow pace along 
a narrow street near the fountain of Trevi, his eyes were 
arrested by an armourer’s window. It suddenly struck 
him that he had no weapon of defence in case San Gia- 
cinto or his agents came upon him unawares. And yet a 
bullet well placed would make an end even of such a 
Hercules as the man he feared. He paused and looked 
anxiously up and down the street. It was a dark day 
and a fine rain was falling. There was nobody about 
who could recognise him, and he might not have another 
such opportunity of providing himself unobserved with 
what he wanted. He entered the shop and bought 
himself a revolver. The man showed him how to load 
it and sold him a box of cartridges. He dropped the 
firearm into one of the pockets of his coat, and smiled as 
he felt how comfortably it balanced the bottle he carried 
in the other. Then he slunk out of the shop and pursued 
his walk. 

The idea of making capital out of the original deeds 
concerning the Saracinesca, which had presented itself 
to him soon after the murder, recurred frequently to his 
mind ; but he felt that he was in no condition to elaborate 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


399 


it, and promised himself to attend to the matter when 
he was better. For he fancied that he was ill and that 
his state would soon begin to improve. To go to San 
Giacinto now was out of the question. It would have 
been easier for him to climb the cross on the summit of 
St. Peter’s, with his shaken nerves and trembling limbs, 
than to face the man who inspired in him such untold 
dread. He could, of course, take the alternative which 
was open to him, and go to old Saracinesca. Indeed, 
there were moments when he could almost have screwed 
his courage to the point of making such an attempt, but 
his natural prudence made him draw back from an inter- 
view in which he must incur a desperate risk unless he 
had a perfect command of his faculties. To write what 
he had to say would be merely to give a weapon against 
himself, since he could not treat the matter by letter 
without acknowledging his share in the forgeries. The 
only way to accomplish his purpose would be to extract 
a solemn promise of secrecy from Saracinesca, together 
with a guarantee for his own safety, and to obtain these 
conditions would need all the diplomacy he possessed. 
Bad as he was, he had no experience of practical black- 
mailing, and he would be obliged to compose his speeches 
beforehand with scrupulous care, and with the wisest 
forethought. For the present, such work was beyond 
his power, but when he was half drunk he loved to look 
at the ancient parchments and build golden palaces in 
the future. When he was strong again, and calm, he 
would realise all his dreams, and that time, he felt sure, 
could not be far removed. 

Nevertheless the days succeeded each other with ap- 
palling swiftness, and nothing was done. By impercep- 
tible degrees his horror of San Giacinto began to invade 
his mind even when it was most deadened by drink. So 
long as an idea is new and has not really become a habit 
of the brain, brandy will drive it away, but the moment 
must inevitably come when the stimulant loses its power 
to obscure the memory of the thing dreaded. Opium will 
do it more effectually, but even that does not continue to 
act for ever. The time comes when the predominant 
thought of the waking hours reproduces itself during the 
artificial sleep with fearful force, so that the mind at 


400 


sant’ ilario. 


last obtains no rest at all. That is the dangerous pe- 
riod, preceding the decay and total collapse of the intel- 
lect under what is commonly called the fixed idea. In 
certain conditions of mind, and notably with criminals 
who fear discovery, the effects of opium change very 
quickly ; the downward steps through which it would take 
months for an ordinary individual to pass are descended 
with alarming rapidity, and the end is a thousand times 
more horrible. Meschini could not have taken the doses 
which a confirmed opium-eater swallows with indiffer- 
ence, but the result produced was far greater in propor- 
tion to the amount of the narcotic he consumed. Before 
the week which followed the deed was ended, he began 
to see visions when he was apparently awake. Shape- 
less, slimy things crawled about the floor of his room, 
upon his table, even upon the sheets of his bed. Dark 
shadows confronted him, and changed their outlines 
unexpectedly. Forms rose out of the earth at his feet 
and towered all at once to the top of the room, taking the 
appearance of San Giacinto and vanishing suddenly into 
the air. The things he saw came like instantaneous 
flashes from another and even more terrible world, disap- 
pearing at first so quickly as to make him believe them 
only the effects of the light and darkness, like the ghost 
he had seen in his coat. In the beginning there was 
scarcely anything alarming in them, but as he started 
whenever they came, he generally took them as a warn- 
ing that he needed more brandy to keep him up. In the 
course of a day or two, however, these visions assumed 
more awful proportions, and he found it impossible to 
escape from them except in absolute stupor. It would 
have been clear to any one that this state of things could 
not last long. There was scarcely an hour in which he 
knew exactly what he was doing, and if his strange be- 
haviour escaped observation this was due to his solitary 
way of living. He did not keep away from the palace 
during the whole day, from a vague idea that his absence 
might be thought suspicious. He spent a certain number 
of hours in the library, doing nothing, although he care- 
fully spread out a number of books before him and dipped 
his pen into the ink from time to time, stupidly, mechan- 
ically, as though his fingers could not forget the habit so 


sant’ ilario. 


401 


long familiar to them. His eyes, which had formerly 
been unusually bright, had grown dull and almost bleared, 
though they glanced at times very quickly from one part 
of the room to another. That was when he saw strange 
things moving in the vast hall, between him and the 
bookcases. When they had disappeared, his glassy look 
returned, so that his eyeballs seemed merely to reflect 
the light, as inanimate objects do, without absorbing it, 
and conveying it to the seat of vision. His face grew 
daily more thin and ghastly. It was by force of custom 
that he stayed so long in the place where he had spent so 
much of his life. The intervals of semi-lucidity seemed 
terribly long, though they were in reality short enough, 
and the effort to engage his attention in work helped him 
to live through them. He had never gone down to the 
apartments where the family lived, since he had knelt 
before the catafalque on the day after the murder. In- 
deed, there was no reason why he should go there, and 
no one noticed his absence. He was a very insignificant 
person in the palace. As for any one coming to find him 
among the books, nothing seemed more improbable. The 
library was swept out in the early morning and no one 
entered it again during the twenty -four hours. He never 
went out into the corridor now, but left his coat upon a 
chair near him, when he remembered to bring it. As a 
sort of precautionary measure against fear, he locked the 
door which opened upon the passage when he came in the 
morning, unlocking it again when he went away in order 
that the servant who did the sweeping might be able to 
get in. 

The Princess Montevarchi was still dangerously ill, 
and Faustina had not been willing to leave her. San 
Giacinto and Flavia were not living in the house, but 
they spent a good deal of time there, because San Gia- 
cinto had ideas of his own about duty, to which his wife 
was obliged to submit even if she did not like them. 
Faustina was neither nervous nor afraid of solitude, and 
was by no means in need of her sister’s company, so that 
when the two were together their conversation was not 
always of the most affectionate kind. The consequence 
was that the young girl tried to be alone as much as pos- 
sible when she was not at her mother’s bedside. One 

2 B 


0 


402 sant’ ilario. 

day, having absolutely nothing to do, she grew desperate. 
It was very hard not to think of Anastase, when she was 
in the solitude of her own room, with no occupation to 
direct her mind. A week earlier she had been only too 
glad to have the opportunity of dreaming away the short 
afternoon undisturbed, letting her girlish thoughts wan- 
der among the rose gardens of the future with the image 
of the man she loved so dearly, and who was yet so far 
removed from her. Now she could not think of him 
without reflecting that her father ^s death had removed 
one very great obstacle to her marriage. She was by no 
means of a very devout or saintly character, but, on the 
other hand, she had a great deal of what is called heart, 
and to be heartless seemed to her almost worset han to 
be bad. In excuse of such very un theological doctrines it 
must be allowed that her ideas concerning wickedness in 
general were very limited indeed, if not altogether child- 
ish in their extreme simplicity. It is certain, however, 
that she would have thought it far less wrong to run 
away with Gouache in spite of her family than to enter- 
tain any thought which could place her father’s tragic 
death in the light of a personal advantage. If she had 
nothing to do she could not help thinking of Anastase, 
and if she thought of him, she could not escape the con- 
clusion that it would be far easier for her to marry him, 
now that the old prince was out of the way. It was 
therefore absolutely necessary to And some occupation. 

At first she wandered aimlessly about the house until 
she was struck, almost for the first time,- by the anti- 
quated stiffness of the arrangement, and began to ask 
herself whether it would be respectful to the memory of 
her father, and to her mother, to try and make a few 
changes. Corona’s home was very different. She would 
like to take that for a model. But one or two attempts 
showed her the magnitude of the task she had under- 
taken. She was ashamed to call the servants to help 
her — it would look as though there were to be a recep- 
tion in the house. Her ideas of what could take place 
in the Palazzo Montevarchi did not go beyond that staid 
form of diversion. She was ashamed, however, and re- 
flected, besides, that she was only the youngest of the 
family and had no right to take the initiative in the mat- 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


4oa 

ter of improvements. The time hung very heavily upon 
her hands. She tried to teach herself something about 
painting by looking at the pictures on the walls, spend- 
ing a quarter of an hour before each with conscientious 
assiduity. But this did not succeed either. The men in 
the pictures all took the shape of Monsieur Gouache in 
his smartest uniform and the women all looked disagree- 
ably like Flavia. Then she thought of the library, 
which was the only place of importance in the house 
which she had not lately visited. She hesitated a mo- 
ment only, considering how she could best reach it with- 
out passing through the study, and without going up the 
grand staircase to the outer door. A very little reflection 
showed her that she could get into the corridor from a 
passage near her own room. In a few minutes she was 
at the entrance to the great hall, trying to turn the heavy 
carved brass handle of the latch. To her surprise she 
could not open the door, which was evidently fastened 
from within. Then as she shook it in the hope that 
some one would hear her, a strange cry reached her ears, 
like that of a startled animal, accompanied by the shuf- 
fling of feet. She remembered Meschini’s walk, and un- 
derstood that it was he. 

“ Please let me in ! ” she called out in her clear young 
voice, that echoed back to her from the vaulted chamber. 

Again she heard the shuffling footsteps, which this 
time came towards her, and a moment afterwards the 
door opened and the librarian’s ghastly face was close 
before her. She drew back a little. She had forgotten 
that he was so ugly, she thought, or perhaps she would 
not have cared to see him. It would have been foolish, 
moreover, to go away after coming thus far. 

I want to see the library, ” she said quietly, after she 
had made up her mind. “Will you show it to me?” 

“ Favorisca, Excellency, ” replied Meschini in a broken 
voice. He had been frightened by the noise at the door, 
and the contortion of his face as he tried to smile was 
hideous to see. He bowed low, however, and closed the 
door after she had entered. Scarcely knowing what he 
did, he shuffled along by her side while she looked about 
the library, gazing at the long rows of books, bound all 
alike, that stretched from end to end of many of the 


404 


sant’ ilario. 


shelves. The place was new to her, for she had not been 
in it more than two or three times in her life, and she 
felt a sort of unexplained awe in the presence of so many 
thousands of volumes, of so much written and printed 
wisdom which she could never hope to understand. She 
had come with a vague idea that she should find some- 
thing to read that should be different from the novels 
she was not allowed to touch. She realised all at once 
that she knew nothing of what had been written in all 
the centuries whose literature was represented in the vast 
collection. She hardly knew the names of twenty books 
out of the hundreds of millions that the world contained. 
But she could ask Meschini. She looked at him again, 
and his face repelled her. Nevertheless, she was too 
kindhearted not to enter into conversation with the lonely 
man whom she had so rarely seen, but who was one of 
the oldest members of her father’s household. 

“You have spent your life here, have you not?” she 
asked, for the sake of saying something. 

“Nearly thirty years of it,” answered Meschini in a 
muffled voice. Her presence tortured him beyond ex- 
pression. “That is a long time, and I am not an old 
man.” 

“And are you always alone here? Do you never go 
out? What do you do all day?” 

“I work among the books. Excellency. There are 
twenty thousand volumes here, enough to occupy a man’s 
time.” 

“Yes — but how? Do you have to read them all?” 
asked Faustina innocently. “ Is that your work? ” 

“ I have read many more than would be believed, for 
my own pleasure. But my work is to keep them in order, 
to see that there is no variation from the catalogue, so 
that when learned men come to make inquiries they may 
find what they want. I have also to take care of all the 
books, to see that they do not suffer in any way. They 
are very valuable. There is a fortune here.” 

Somehow he felt less nervous when he began to speak 
of the library and its contents and the words came more 
easily to him. With a little encouragement he might 
even become loquacious. In spite of his face, Faustina 
began to feel an interest in him. 


sant’ ilario. 


405 


“ It must be very hard work,” she remarked. “ Bo you 
like it? Did you never want to do anything else? I 
should think you would grow tired of being always 
alone.” 

“I am very patient,” answered Meschini humbly. 

♦ And I am used to it. I grew accustomed to the life 
when I was young.” 

‘^You say the collection is valuable. Are there any 
very beautiful books? I would like to see some of them.” 

The fair young creature sat down upon one of the high 
carved chairs at the end of a table. Meschini went to 
the other side of the hall and unlocked one of the drawers 
which lined the lower part of the bookcases to the height 
of three or four feet. Each was heavily carved with theu 
Montevarchi arms in high relief. It was in these recep- 
tacles that the precious manuscripts were kept in their 
cases. He returned bringing a small square volume of 
bound manuscript, and laid it before Faustina. 

This is worth an enormous sum, ” he said. “ It is the 
only complete one in the world. There is an imperfect 
copy in the library of the Vatican.” 

“ What is it?” 

“ It is the Montevarchi Dante, the oldest in existence.” 

Faustina turned over the leaves curiously, and admired 
the even writing though she could not read many of the 
words, for the ancient characters were strange to her. 
It was a wonderful picture that the couple made in the 
great hall. On every side the huge carved bookcases of 
walnut, black with age, rose from the floor to the spring 
of the vault, their dark faces reflected in the highly-pol- 
ished floor of coloured marble. Across the ancient tables 
a ray of sunlight fell from the high clere-story window. 
In the centre, the two figures with the old manuscript 
between them; Faustina’s angel head in a high light 
against the dusky background, as she bent forward a 
little, turning the yellow pages with her slender, trans- 
parent fingers, the black folds of her full gown making 
heavy lines of drapery, graceful by her grace, and ren- 
dered less severe by a sort of youthfulness that seemed 
to pervade them, and that emanated from herself. Be- 
side her, the bent frame of the broken down libra^rian, 
in a humble and respectful attitude, his long arms hang- 


406 


sant’ ilario. 


ing down by bis sides, his shabby black coat almost 
dragging to his heels, his head bent forward as he looked 
at the pages.- All his features seemed to have grown 
more sharp and yellow and pointed, and there was now 
a deep red flush in the upper part of his cheeks. A mo- 
mentary light shone in his gray eyes, from beneath the 
bushy brows, a light of intelligence such as had formerly 
characterised them especially, brought back now perhaps 
by the effort to flx his attention upon the precious book. 
His large, coarse ears appeared to point themselves for- 
ward like those of an animal, following the direction of 
his sight. In outward appearance he presented a strange 
mixture of dilapidation, keenness, and brutality. A 
week had changed him very much. A few days ago 
most people would have looked at him with a sort of 
careless compassion. Now, there was about him some- 
thing distinctly repulsive. Beside Faustina’s youth and 
delicacy, and freshness, he hardly seemed like a human 
being. 

“I suppose it is a very wonderful thing,” said the 
young girl at last, “but I do not know enough to under- 
stand its value. Do my brothers ever come to the 
library? ” She leaned back from the volume and glanced 
at Meschini’s face, wondering how heaven could have 
made anything so ugly. 

“No. They never come,” replied the librarian, draw- 
ing the book towards him instinctively, as he would have 
done if his visitor had been a stranger, who might try to 
steal a page or two unless he were watched. 

“ But my poor father was very fond of the books, was 
he not ? Did he not often come to see you here?” 

She was thinking so little of Meschini that she did not 
see that he turned suddenly white and shook like a man 
in an ague. It was what he had feared all along, ever 
since she had entered the room. She suspected him and 
had come, or had perhaps been sent by San Giacinto to 
draw him into conversation and to catch him in some- 
thing which could be interpreted to be a confession of 
his crime. Had that been her intention, his behaviour 
would have left little doubt in her mind as to the truth 
of the accusation. His face betrayed him, his uncon- 
trollable fear, his frightened eyes and trembling limbs. 


sant’ ilario. 


407 


But she had only glanced at him, and her sight wandered 
to the bookcases for a moment. When she looked again 
he was moving away from her, along the table. She was 
surprised to see that his step was uncertain, and that he 
reeled against the heavy piece of furniture and grasped 
it for support. She started a little but did not rise. 

Are you ill?’’ she asked. ‘‘Shall I call some one?” 

He made no answer, but seemed to recover himself at 
the sound of her voice, for he shuffled away and disap- 
peared behind the high carved desk on which lay the 
open catalogue. She thought she saw a flash of light 
reflected from some smooth surface, and immediately 
afterwards she heard a gurgling sound, which she did 
not understand. Meschini was fortifying himself with 
a draught. Then he reappeared, walking more steadily. 
He had received a severe shock, but, as usual, he had 
not the courage to run away, conceiving that flight would 
inevitably be regarded as a proof of guilt. 

“ I am not well, ” he said in explanation as he returned. 
“I am obliged to take medicine continually. I beg your 
Excellency to forgive me.” 

“I am sorry to hear that,” answered Faustina kindly. 
“Can we do nothing for you? Have you all you need?” 

“Everything, thank you. I shall soon be well.” 

“I hope so, I am sure. What was I saying? Oh — I 
was asking whether my poor father came often to the 
library. Was he fond of the books? ” 

“ His Excellency — Heaven give him glory ! — he was 
a learned man. Yes, he came now and then.” Meschini 
took possession of the manuscript and carried it off rather 
suddenly to its place in the drawer. He was a long 
time in locking it up. Faustina watched him with some 
curiosity. 

“You were here that day, were you not?” she asked, 
as he turned towards her once more. The question was 
a natural one, considering the circumstances. 

“I think your Excellency was present when I was 
examined by the prefect,” answered Meschini in a curi- 
ously disagreeable tone. 

“True,” said Faustina. “You said you had been here 
all day as usual. I had forgotten. How horrible it 
was. And you saw nobody, you heard nothing? But I 
suppose it is too far from the study.” 


408 


sant’ ilario. 


The librarian did not answer, but it was evident from 
his manner that he was very much disturbed. Indeed, 
he fancied that his worst fears were realised, and that 
Faustina was really trying to extract information from 
him for his own conviction. Her thoughts were actually 
very far from any such idea. She would have considered 
it quite as absurd to accuse the poor wretch before her as 
she had thought it outrageous that she herself should be 
suspected. Her father had always seemed to her a very 
imposing personage, and she could not conceive that he 
should have met his death at the hands of such a miser- 
able creature as Arnoldo Meschini, who certainly had not 
the outward signs of physical strength or boldness. He, 
however, understood her words very differently and 
stood still, half way between her and the bookcases, ask- 
ing himself whether it would not be better to take 
immediate steps for his safety. His hand was behind 
him, feeling for the revolver in the pocket of his long 
coat. Faustina was singularly fearless, by nature, but if 
she had guessed the danger of her position she would 
probably have effected her escape very quickly, instead 
of continuing the conversation. 

It is a very dreadful mystery, ” she said, rising from 
her chair and walking slowly across the polished marble 
floor until she stood before a row of great volumes of which 
the colour had attracted her eye. It is the duty of us 
all to try and explain it. Of course we shall know all 
about it some day, but it is very hard to be patient. Do 
you know?’’ she turned suddenly and faced Meschini, 
speaking with a vehemence not usual for her. “ They 
suspected me, as if I could have done it, I, a weak girl ! 
And yet — if I had the man before me — the man who 
murdered him — I believe I would kill him with my 
hands ! ” 

She moved forward a little, as she spoke, and tapped 
her small foot upon the pavement, as though to empha- 
sise her words. Her soft brown eyes flashed with right- 
eous anger, and her cheek grew pale at the thought of 
avenging her father. There must have been something 
very fierce in her young face, for Mesch ini’s heart failed 
him, and his nerves seemed to collapse all at once. He 
tried to draw back from her, slipped and fell upon his 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


409 


knees with a sharp cry of fear. Even then, Faustina did 
not suspect the cause of his weakness, but attributed it 
to the illness of which he had spoken. She sprang for- 
ward and attempted to help the poor creature to his feet, 
but instead of making an effort to rise, he seemed to be 
grovelling before her, uttering incoherent exclamations 
of terror. 

“ Lean on me ! ” said Faustina, putting out her hand. 

What is the matter? Oh! Are you going to die! ” 

“ Oh ! oh ! Do not hurt me — pray — in God’s name ! ” 
cried Meschini, raising his eyes timidly. 

‘‘Hurt you? No! Why should I hurt you? You are 
ill — we will have the doctor. Try and get up — try and 
get to a chair.” 

Her tone reassured him a little, and her touch also, as 
she did her best to raise him to his feet. He struggled 
a little and at last stood up, leaning upon the bookcase, 
and panting with fright. 

“ It is nothing, ” he tried to say, catching his breath at 
every syllable. “ I am better — my nerves — your Excel- 
lency — ugh! what a coward I am! ” 

The last exclamation, uttered in profound disgust of 
his own weakness, struck Faustina as very strange. 

“Did I frighten you?” she asked in surprise. “I am 
very sorry. Now sit down and I will call some one to 
come to you.” 

“No, no! Please — I would rather be alone! I can 
walk quite well now. If — if your Excellency will 
excuse me, I will go to my room. I have more medicine 
— I will take it and I shall be better.” 

“Can you go alone? Are you sure?” asked Faustina 
anxiously. But even while she spoke he was moving 
towards the door, slowly and painfully at first, as it 
seemed, though possibly a lingering thought of propriety 
kept him from appearing to run away. The young girl 
walked a few steps after him, half fearing that he might 
fall again. But he kept his feet and reached the thresh- 
old. Then he made a queer attempt at a bow, and 
mumbled some words that Faustina could not hear. In 
another moment he had disappeared, and she was alone. 

For some minutes she looked at the closed door through 
which he had gone out. Then she shook her head a 


410 


sant’ ilahio. 


little sadly, and slowly went back to her room by the 
way she had come. It was all very strange, she thought, 
but his illness might account for it. She would have 
liked to consult San Giacinto, but though she was out- 
wardly on good terms with him, and could not help feel- 
ing a sort of respect for his manly character, the part he 
had played in attempting to separate her from Gouache 
had prevented the two from becoming intimate. She 
said nothing to any one about her interview with Mes- 
chini in the library, and no one even guessed that she 
had been there. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

In spite of his haste to settle all that remained to be 
settled with regard to the restitution of the property to 
San Giacinto, Saracinesca found it impossible to wind up 
the affair in a week as he had intended. It was a very 
complicated matter to separate from his present fortune 
that part of it which his cousin would have inherited 
from his great-grandfather. A great deal of wealth had 
come into the family since that time by successive mar- 
riages,. and the management of the original estate had 
not been kept separate from the administration of the 
dowries which had from time to time been absorbed into 
it. The Saracinesca, however, were orderly people, and 
the books had been kept for generations with that aston- 
ishing precision of detail which is found in the great 
Roman houses, and which surpasses, perhaps, anything 
analogous which is to be found in modern business. By 
dint of perseverance and by employing a great number 
of persons in making the calculations, the notaries had 
succeeded in preparing a tolerably satisfactory schedule 
in the course of a fortnight, which both the principal 
parties agreed to accept as final. The day fixed for the 
meeting and liquidation of the accounts was a Saturday, 
a fortnight and two days after the murder of Prince 
Montevarchi. A question arose concerning the place of 
meeting. 


sant’ ilario. 


411 


Saracinesca proposed that San Giacinto and the notaries 
should come to the Palazzo Saracinesca. He was ready 
to brave out the situation to the end, to face his fate 
until it held nothing more in store for him, even to 
handing over the inventory of all that was no longer his 
in the house where he had been born. His boundless 
courage and almost brutal frankness would doubtless 
have supported him to the last, even through such a trial 
to his feelings, but San Giacinto refused to agree to the 
proposal. He repeatedly stated that he wished the old 
prince to inhabit the palace through his lifetime, and 
that he should even make every effort to induce him to 
retain the title. Both of these offers were rejected 
courteously, but firmly. In the matter of holding the 
decisive meeting in the palace, however, San Giacinto 
made a determined stand. He would not on any account 
appear in the light of the conqueror coming to take 
possession of the spoil. His wife had no share in this 
generous sentiment. She would have liked to enjoy her 
triumph to the full, for she was exceedingly ambitious, 
and was, moreover, not very fond of the Saracinesca. 
As she expressed it, she felt when she was with any of 
them, from the old prince to Corona, that they must be 
thinking all the time that she was a very foolish young 
person. San Giacinto’s action was therefore spontane- 
ous, and if it needs explanation it may be ascribed to an 
inherited magnanimity, to a certain dignity which had 
distinguished him even as a young man from the low 
class in which he had grown up. He was, indeed, by no 
means a type of the perfect nobleman ; his conduct in the 
affair between Paustina and Gouache had shown that. 
He acted according to his lights, and was not ashamed to 
do things which his cousin Giovanni would have called 
mean. But he was manly, for all that, and if he owed 
some of his dignity to great stature and to his indomi- 
table will, it was also in a measure the outward sign of a 
good heart and ox an innate sense of justice. There had 
as yet been nothing dishonest in his dealings since he 
had come to Home. He had acquired a fortune which 
enabled him to take the position that was lawfully his. 
He liked Plavia, and had bargained for her with her 
father, afterwards scrupulously fulfilling the terms of 


412 


SANT’ ILAllIO. 


tlie contract. He had not represented himself to he 
Avhat he was not, and he liad taken no unfair advantage 
of any one for his own advancement. In tlie matter of 
the snit he was the dupe of old IMontevarchi, so far as 
the deeds were concerned, but he was perfectly aware 
that he actually represented the elder branch of his 
family. It is hard to imagine how any man in his posi- 
tion could have done less than he did ; and now that it 
had come to a final settlement he was really anxious to 
cause his vanquished relations as little humiliation as 
l)ossible. To go to their house was like playing the part 
of a bailiff. To allow them to come to his dwelling 
suggested the journey to Canossa. The Palazzo Monte- 
varchi was neutral ground, and he proposed that the 
formalities should be fulfilled there. Saracinesca con- 
sented readily enough and the day was fixed. 

The notaries ari-ived at ten o’clock in the morning, 
accompanied by clerks who were laden Avith books, 
inventories and rolls of manuscript. The study had been 
selected for the meeting, both on account of its seclusion 
from the rest of the house and because it contained an 
immense table Avhich Avould serve for the voluminous 
documents, all of Avhich must be examined and verified. 
San Giacinto himself awaited the arrival of the Saracin- 
esca in the great reception-room. He had sent his wife 
away, for he Avas in reality by no means so calm as he 
appeared to be, and her constant talk disturbed him. 
He paced the long room Avith regular steps, his head 
erect, his hands behind him, stopping from time to time 
to listen for the footsteps of those he expected. It was 
the great day of his life. Before night, he Avas to be 
Prince Saracinesca. 

The moments that precede a great triumph are very 
painful, especially if a man has looked forward to the 
event for a long time. No matter Iioaa^ sure he is of the 
result, something tells him that it is uncertain. A 
question may arise, he cannot guess Avhence, by Avhich 
all may be changed. He repeats to himself a hundred 
times that failure is impossible, but he is not at rest. 
The uncertainty of all things, even of his own life, 
ajqAears very clearly before his eyes. His heart beats 
fast and sIoav from one minute to another. At the very 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


413 


instant when he is dreaming of the future, the possibility 
of disappointment breaks in upon his thoughts. He 
cannot explain it, but he longs to be beyond the decisive 
hour. In San Giacinto’s existence, the steps from 
obscurity to importance and fortune had, of late, been 
so rapidly ascended that he was almost giddy with suc- 
cess. For the first time since he had left his old home 
in Aquila, he felt as though he had been changed from 
his own self to some other person. 

At last the door opened, and Saracinesca, Giovanni, 
and Corona entered the room. San Giacinto was sur- 
prised to see Giovanni’s wife on an occasion when the 
men alone of the family were concerned, but she explained 
that she had come to spend the morning with Faustina, 
and would wait till everything was finished. The meet- 
ing was not a cordial one, though both parties regarded 
it as inevitable. If Saracinesca felt any personal resent- 
ment against San Giacinto he knew that it was unreason- 
able and he had not the bad taste to show it. He was 
silent, but courteous in his manner. Giovanni, strange 
to say, seemed wholly indifferent to what was about to 
take place. 

“ I hope, ” said San Giacinto, when all four were seated, 
“ that you will consent to consider this as a mere for- 
mality. I have said as much through my lawyers, but 
I wish to repeat it myself in better words than they used.” 

Pardon me,” answered Saracinesca, ‘Gf I suggest 
that we should not discuss that matter. We are sensible 
of your generosity in making such offers, but we do not 
consider it possible to accept them.” 

“ I must ask your indulgence if I do not act upon your 
suggestion,” returned San Giacinto. ^‘Even if there is 
no discussion I cannot consent to proceed to business 
until I have explained what I mean. If the suit has 
been settled justly by the courts, it has not been decided 
with perfect justice as regards its consequences. I do not 
deny, and I understand that you do not expect me to act 
otherwise, that it has been my intention to secure for 
myself and for my children the property and the personal 
position abandoned by my ancestor. I have obtained 
what I wanted and what was my right, and I have to 
thank you for the magnanimity you have displayed in not 


414 


sant’ ilario. 


attempting to contest a claim against which you might 
have brought many arguments, if not much evidence. The 
affair having been legally settled, it is for us to make 
whatever use of it seems better in our own eyes. To 
deprive you of your name and of the house in which you 
were born and bred, would be to offer you an indignity 
such as I never contemplated.” 

“You cannot be said to deprive us of what is not ours, 
by any interpretation of the word with which I am ac- 
quainted,” said Saracinesca in a tone which showed that 
he was determined to receive nothing. 

“I am a poor grammarian,” answered San Giacinto 
gravely, and without the slightest affectation of humility. 
“ I was brought up a farmer, and was only an innkeeper 
until lately. I cannot discuss with you the subtle mean- 
ings of words. To my mind it is I who am taking from 
you that which, if not really yours, you have hitherto 
had every right to own and to make use of. I do not 
attempt to exjdain my thought. I only say that I will 
neither take your name nor live in your house while you 
^are alive. I propose a compromise which I hope you will 
be willing to accept.” 

“ I fear that will be impossible. My mind is made up.” 

“ I propose,” continued San Giacinto, “ that you remain 
Prince Saracinesca, that you keep Saracinesca itself, and 
the palace here in Rome during your lifetime, which I 
trust may be a long one. After your death everything 
returns to us. My cousin Giovanni and the Princess 
Sant’ Ilario ” 

“You may call me Corona, if you please,” said the 
princess suddenly. Her eyes were fixed on his face, and 
she was smiling. 

Both Saracinesca and Giovanni looked at her in sur- 
prise. It seemed strange to them that she should choose 
such a moment for admitting San Giacinto to a famil- 
iarity he had never before enjoyed. But for some time 
she had felt a growing respect for the ex-innkeeper, 
which was quickened by his present generosity. San 
Giacinto’s swarthy face grew a shade darker as the blood 
mounted to his lean cheeks. Corona had given him one 
of the first sensations of genuine pleasure he had e^er 
experienced in his rough life. 




SANT’ ILARIO. 


415 


‘‘Thank you,” he said simply. “You two, I was going 
to say, have palaces of your own and cannot have such 
close associations with the old places as one who has 
owned them during so many years. You,” he continued, 
turning to the old prince, “will, I hope, accept an ar- 
rangement which cannot affect your dignity and which 
will give me the greatest satisfaction.” 

“I am very much obliged to you,” answered Saracin- 
esca promptly. “ You are very generous, but I cannot 
take what you offer.” 

“ If you feel that you would be taking anything from 
me, look at it from a different point of view. You would 
be conferring a favour instead of accepting one. Con- 
sider my position, when I have taken your place. It 
will not be a pleasant one. The world will abuse me 
roundly, and will say I have behaved abominably towards 
you. Do you fancy that I shall be received as a substi- 
tute for the Prince Saracinesca your friends have known 
so long? Do you suppose that the vicissitudes of my life 
are unknown, and that no one will laugh behind my back 
and point at me as the new, upstart prince? Few people 
know me in Rome, and if I have any friends besides you , 
I have not been made aware of the fact. Pray consider 
that in doing what I ask, you would be saving me from 
very unpleasant social consequences.” 

“I should be doing so at the cost of my self-respect,” 
replied the old man firmly. “ Whatever the consequences 
are to you, the means of bearing them will be in your 
hands. You will have no lack of friends to-morrow, or 
at least of amiable persons anxious to call themselves by 
that name. They will multiply this very night, like 
mushrooms, and will come about you freshly shaved and 
smiling to-morrow morning.” 

“ I am afraid you do not understand me, ” said San Gia- 
cinto. “I can leave you the title and yet take one 
which will serve as well. You would call yourself 
Prince Saracinesca and I should be Saracinesca di San 
Giacinto. As for the palace and the place in the moun- 
tains, they are so insignificant as compared with the rest 
that it could not hurt your self-respect to live in them. 
Can you not persuade your father? ” He turned to Gio- 
vanni who had not spoken yet. 


416 


sant’ ilario. 


“ You are very good to make the proposal,” he answered. 
“I cannot say more than that. I agree with my father.” 

A silence followed which lasted several minutes. 
Corona looked from one to the other of the three men, 
wondering how the matter would end. She understood 
both parties better than they understood each other. 
She sympathised with the refusal of her husband and his 
father. To accept such an offer would put them in a 
position of obligation towards San Giacinto which she 
knew they could never endure, and which would be gall- 
ing to herself. On the other hand she felt sorry for 
their cousin, who was evidently trying to do what he felt 
was right and generous, and was disappointed that his 
advances should be repelled. He was very much in 
earnest, or he would not have gone so far as to suggest 
that it would be a favour to him if they took what he 
offered. He was so simple, and yet so dignified withal, 
that she could not help liking him. It was not clear to 
her, however, that she could mend matters by interfering, 
nor by offering advice to the one or sympathy to the other. 

Saracinesca himself was the first to break the silence. 
It seemed to him that everything had been said, and that 
nothing now remained but to fulfil the requisite formali- 
ties. 

“ Shall we proceed to business? ” he inquired, as though 
ignoring all the previous conversation. “ I believe we 
have a great deal to do, and the time is passing.” 

San Giacinto made no reply, but rose gravely and made 
a gesture signifying that he would show the way to the 
study. Saracinesca made a show of refusing to go out 
first, then yielded and went on. San Giacinto waited at 
the door for Corona and Giovanni. 

“1 will join you in a moment — I know the way,” said 
the latter, remaining behind with his wife. 

When they were alone he led her towards one of the 
windows, as though to be doubly sure that no one could 
hear what he was about to say. Then he stood still and 
looked into her eyes. 

‘‘Would you like us to accept such a favour from 
him?” he asked. “ Tell me the truth.” 

“No,” answered Corona without the least hesitation. 
“ But I am sorry for San Giacinto. I think he is really 


sant’ ilario. 417 

trying to do right, and to be generous. He was hurt by 
your father’s answer.” 

“ If I thought it would give you pleasure to feel that 
we could go to Saracinesca, I would try and make my 
father change his mind.” 

“ Would you? ” She knew very well what a sacrifice it 
would be to his pride. 

Yes, dear. I would do it for you.” 

Giovanni — how good you are ! ” 

No — lam not good. I love you. That is all. Shall 
I try?” 

“ Never ! I am sorry for San Giacinto — but I could no 
more live in the old house, or in Saracinesca, than you 
could. Do I not feel all that you feel, and more?” 

‘‘All?” 

“All.” 

They stood hand in hand looking out of the window, 
and there were tears in the eyes of both. The grasp of 
their fingers tiglitened slowly as though they were drawn 
together by an irresistible force. Slowly they turned 
their faces towards each other, and presently their lips 
met in one of those kisses that are never forgotten. Then 
Giovanni left her where she was. All had been said; 
both knew that they desired nothing more in this world, 
and that henceforth they were all to each other. It was 
as though a good angel had set a heavenly seal upon the 
reunion of their hearts. 

Corona did not leave the room immediately, but re- 
mained a few moments leaning against the heavy frame 
of the window. Her queenly figure drooped a little, and 
she pressed one hand to her side. Her dark face was 
bent down, and the tears that had of old come so rarely 
made silver lines upon her olive cheeks. There was not 
one drop of bitterness in that overflowing of her soul’s 
transcendent joy, in that happiness which was so great 
and perfect that it seemed almost unbearable. 

And she had reason to be glad. In the midst of a 
calamity which would have absorbed the whole nature of 
many men, Giovanni had not one thouglit that was not 
for her. Giovanni, who had once doubted her, who had 
said such things to her as she dared not remember — Gio- 
vanni, suffering under a blow to his pride, that was 

2 c 


418 


sant’ ilario. 


worse almost than total ruin, had but one wish, to make 
another sacrifice for her. That false past, of which she 
hated to think, was gone like an evil dream before the 
morning sun ; that true past, which was her whole life, 
was made present again. The love that had been so 
bruised and crushed that she had thought it dead had 
sprung up again from its deep, strong roots, grander and 
nobler than before. The certainty that it was real was 
overwhelming, and drowned all her senses in a trance of 
light. 

Faustina Montevarchi entered the drawing-room softly, 
then, seeing no one, she advanced till she came all at once 
upon Corona in the embrasure of the window. The prin- 
cess started slightly when she saw that she was not alone. 

‘‘Corona! exclaimed the young girl. “Are you cry- 
ing? What is it?’’ 

“ Oh, Faustina! I am so happy ! ” It was a relief to be 
able to say it to some one. 

“ Happy? ” repeated Faustina in surprise. “ But there 
are tears in your eyes, on your cheeks ” 

“You cannot understand — I do not wonder — how 
should you? And besides, I cannot tell you what it is.” 

“I wish I were you,” answered her friend sadly. “I 
wish I were happy ! ” 

“What is it, child?” asked Corona kindly. Then she 
led Faustina to a stiff old sofa at one end of the vast 
room and they sat down together. “What is it?” she 
repeated, drawing the girl affectionately to her side. 

“You know what it is, dear. No one can help me. 
Oh, Corona ! we love each other so very much ! ” 

“ I know — I know it is very real. But you must have 
a little patience, darling. Love will win in the end. Just 

now, too ” She did not finish the sentence, but she 

had touched a sensitive spot in Faustina’s conscience. 

“ That is the worst of it, ” was the answer. “ I am so 
miserable, because I know he never would have allowed 
it, and now — I am ashamed to tell you, it is so heart- 
less ! ” She hid her face on her friend’s shoulder. 

“You will never be heartless, my dear Faustina,” said 
Corona. “ What you think, is not your fault, dear. Love 
is master of the world and of us ail.” 

“But my love is not like yours. Corona. Perhaps 


sant’ ilario. 


419 


yours was once like mine. But you are married — you 
are happy. You were saying so just now.’’ 

Yes, dear. I am very, very happy, because I love very, 
very dearly. You will be as happy as I am some day.” 

“Ah, that may be — but — I am dreadfully wicked. 
Corona! ” 

“You, child? You do not know what it is to think 
anything bad ! ” 

“But I do. I am so much ashamed of it that I can 
hardly tell you — only I tell you everything, because you 
are my friend. Corona — it is horrible -^t seems easier, 
more possible — now that he is gone 1 I am so glad I 
have told you! ” Faustina began to- -sob passionately, as 
though she were repenting of some fearful crime. 

“Is that all, darling?” asked Corona, smiling at the 
girl’s innocence, and pressing her head tenderly to her 
own breast. “ Is that what mak^ you so unhappy? ” 

“Yes — is it not — very, very" dreadful ? ” A fresh 
shower of tears accompanied tlie question. 

“Perhaps I am very bM, too,” said Corona. “But I 
do not call that wickedness.” 

“Oh no! You are good. I wish I were like you! ” 

“No, do not wish that. But, I confess, it seems to 
me natural tliat you should think as you do, because it is 
really true. Your father, Faustina, may have been mis- 
taken about your future^If — if lie had lived, you might 
perhaps have made him-^range his mind. At all events, 
you can hope tliat he nowkees more clearly, that he un- 
derstands how terrible it is for a woman to be married 
to a man she does not Ipve — Avhen she is sure that she 
loves another.” 

“Yes — you told me. Do you remember? It was the 
other day, after Flavia had been saying such dreadful 
things. But I know it already. Every woman must 
know it.” 

There was a short pause, during which Corona won- 
dered whether she were the same person she had been 
ten days earlier, when she had delivered that passionate 
warning. Faustina sat quite still, looking up into the 
jir.incess’s face. She was comforted and reassured and 
tl^ tears had ceased to flow. 

' “ There is something else, ” she said at last. “ I want 


420 


sant’ ilakio. 


to tell you everything, for I ean tell no one else. I cannot 
keep it to myself either. He has written to me, Corona. 
Was it very wrong to read his letter? This time she 
smiled a little and blushed. 

“I do not think it was very wrong,’’ answered her 
friend with a soft laugh. She was so happy that she 
would have laughed at anything. , 

‘‘Shall I show you his letter?” asked the young girl 
shyly. At the same time her hand disappeared into the 
pocket of her black gown, and imijiediately afterwards 
brought out a folded piece of paper which looked as 
though it had been read several times. 

Corona did not think it necessary to express her assent 
in words. Faustina opened tlie note, which contained 
the following words, written in Gouache’s delicate French 
handwriting : — 

“ Mademoiselle — When you have read these lines, you will un- 
derstand my object in writing them, for you understand me, and 
you know that all I do has but one object. A few days ago it was 
still possible for us to meet frequently. The terrible affliction 
which has fallen upon you, and in which none can feel deeper or 
more sincere sympathy than I, has put it out of your power and 
out of mine to join hands and weep over the present, to look into 
each other’s eyes and read there the golden legend of a future hap- 
l)iness. To meet as we have met, alone in the crowded church — 
no ! we cannot do it. For you, at such a time, it would seem like 
a disrespect to your father’s memory. For myself, I should deem 
it dishonourable, I should appear base in my own eyes. Did I not 
go to him and put to him the great question ? Was I not repulsed 
— T I do not say with insult, but with astonishment — at my pre- 
sumption ? Shall I then seem to take advantage of his death — of 
his sudden and horrible death — to iiress forward a suit which he is 
no longer able to oppose ? I feel that it would be wrong. Though 
1 cannot express myself as I would, I know that you understand 
me, for you think as I do. How could it be otherwise ? Are we 
not one indivisible soul, we two ? Yes, you will understand me. 
Yes, you will know that it is right. I go therefore, I leave Koine 
immediately. I cannot inhabit the same city and not see you. But 
I cannot quit the Zouaves in this time of danger. I am therefore 
going to Viterbo, whither I am sent through the friendly assistance of 
one of our officers. There I shall stay until time has soothed your 
grief and restored your mother to health. To her we will turn when 
the moment has arrived. She will not be insensible to our tears and 
entreaties. Until then good-bye — ah ! the word is less terrible than 
’ t looks, for our souls will be always together. I leave you but for 
a short space — no ! I leave your sweet eyes, your angel’s face, your 
dear hands that T adore, but yourself I do not leave. T bear you 
with me in a heart that loves you — God knows how tenderly.” 


sant’ ilario. 


421 


Corona read the letter carefully to the eml. To her 
older appreciation of the world, such a letter appeared at 
first to be the forerunner of a definite break, but a little 
reflection made her change her mind. What he said was 
clearly true, and corresponded closely with Faustina’s 
own view of the case. The most serious obstacle to the 
union of the lovers had been removed by Prinoe Monte- 
varchi’s death, and it was inconceivable that Gouache 
should have ceased to care for Faustina at the very mo- 
ment when a chance of his marrying her had presented 
itself. Besides, Corona knew Gouache well, and was not 
mistaken in her estimate of his character. He was 
honourable to Quixotism, and perfectly capable of refus- 
ing to take what looked like an unfair advantage. Con- 
sidering Faustina’s strange nature, her amazing readiness 
to yield to first impulses, and her touching innocence of 
evil, it would have been an easy matter for the man she 
loved to draw her into a runaway match. She would 
have followed him as readily to the ends of the earth 
as she had followed him to the Serristori barracks. Gou- 
ache was not a boy, and probably understood her pecul- 
iarities as well as any one. In going away for the 
present he was undoubtedly acting with the greatest 
delicacy, for his departure showed at once all the respect 
he felt for Faustina, and all that devotion to an ideal 
honour which was the foundation of his being. Though 
his epistle was not a model of literary style it contained 
certain phrases that came from the heart. Corona under- 
stood why Faustina was pleased with it, and why instead 
of shedding useless tears over his absence, she had shown 
such willingness to let her friend read Gouache’s own 
explanation of his departure. She folded the sheet of 
paper again and gave it back to the young girl. 

am glad he wrote that letter,” she said after a mo- 
ment’s pause. I always believed in him, and now — 
well, I think, he is almost worthy of you, Faustina.” 

Faustina threw her arms around Corona’s neck, and 
kissed her again and again. 

“ I am so glad you know how good he is ! ” she cried. 
“ I could not be happy unless you liked him, and you do.” 

All through the morning the two friends sat together 
in the great drawing-room talking, as such women can 


422 


sant’ ilario. 


talk to each other, with infinite grace about matters not 
worth recording, or if they spoke of things of greater 
importance, repeating the substance of what they had 
said before, finding at each repetition some new com- 
ment to make, some new point upon which to agree, after 
the manner of people who are very fond of each other. 
The hours slipped by, and they were unconscious of the 
lapse of time. The great clocks of the neighbouring 
church towers tolled eleven, twelve, and one o’clock, and 
yet they had more to say, and did not even notice the 
loud ringing of the hundred bells. The day was clear, 
and the bright sunlight streamed in through the high 
windows, telling the hour with a more fateful precision 
than the clocks outside. All was peace and happiness 
and sweet intercourse, as the two women sat there undis- 
turbed through the long morning. They talked, and 
laughed, and held their hands clasped together, uncon- 
scious of the rest of the world. No sound penetrated 
from the rest of the house to tlie quiet, sunlit hall, which 
to Faustina’s mind had never looked so cheerful before 
since she could remember it. And yet within the walls 
of the huge old palace strange things were passing, things 
which it was well that neither of them should see. 

Before describing the events which close this part of 
my story, it is as well to say that Faustina has made her 
last appearance for the present. From the point of view 
which Avould have been taken by most of her acquaint- 
ances, her marriage with Gouache was a highly improb- 
able event. If any one desires an apology for being left 
in uncertainty as to her fate, I can only answer that I am 
writing the history of the Saracinesca and not of any one 
else. There are certain stages in that history which are 
natural halting-places for the historian himself, and for 
his readers if he have any; and it is impossible to make 
the lives of a number of people coincide so far as to wind 
them up together, and yet be sure that they will run down 
at the same moment like the clocks of his Majesty 
Charles the Fifth. If it were, the world would be a very 
different place. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


423 


CHAPTER XXX. 

The scene in the study, while the notary read through 
the voluminous documents, is worth describing. At one 
end of the large green table sat San Giacinto alone, his 
form, even as he sat, towering above the rest. The 
mourning he wore harmonised with his own dark and 
massive head. His expression was calm and thoughtful, 
betraying neither satisfaction nor triumph. From time 
to time his deep-set eyes turned towards Saracinesca with 
a look of inquiry, as though to assure -himself that the 
prince agreed to the various points and was aware that 
he must now speak for the last time, if he spoke at all. 
At the other end of the board the two Saracinesca were 
seated side by side. The strong resemblance that existed 
between them was made very apparent by their position, 
but although, allowing for the difference of their ages, 
their features corresponded almost line for line, their 
expressions were totally different. The old man’s gray 
hair and pointed beard seemed to bristle with suppressed 
excitement. His heavy brows were bent together, as 
though he were making a great effort to control his tem- 
per, and now and then there was an angry gleam in his 
eyes. He sat square and erect in his seat, as though he 
were facing an enemy, but he kept his hands below the 
table, for he did not choose that San Giacinto should see 
the nervous working of his fingers. Giovanni, on the other 
hand, looked upon the proceedings with an indifference 
that was perfectly apparent. He occasionally looked at 
his watch, suppressed a yawn, and examined his nails 
with great interest. It was clear that he was not in the 
least moved by what was going on. It was no light mat- 
ter for the old nobleman to listen to the documents that 
deprived him one by one of his titles, his estates, and his 
other wealth, in favour of a man who was still young, 
and whom, in spite of the relationship, he could not help 
regarding as an inferior. He had always considered 
himself as the representative of an older generation, who, 
by right of position, was entitled to transmit to his son 
the whole mass of those proud traditions in which he had 


424 


sant’ ilario. 


gro.wn up as in Ids natural element. Giovanni, on the 
contrary, possessed a goodly share of that indifference 
that characterises the younger men of the nineteentli 
century. He was perfectly satisfied with his present 
situation, and had been so long accustomed to depend 
upon his personality and his private fortune, for all that 
he enjoyed or required in life, that he did not desire the 
responsibilities that weigh heavily upon the head of a 
great family. Moreover, recent events had turned the 
current of liis thoughts into a different direction. He 
was in his way as happy as Corona, and he knew that 
real happiness i)roceeds from something more than a 
score of titles and a few millions of money, more or less. 
He regarded the long morning’s work as an intolerable 
nuisance, which prevented him from spending his time 
with his Avife. 

In the middle of the table sat the Hvo notaries, flanked 
by four clerks, all of them x)ale men in black, clean shaved, 
of various ages, but bearing on their faces the almost 
unmistakable stamp of their profession. The one who 
Avas reading the deeds wore sx:>ectacles. Hrom time to 
time he pushed them back upon his bald forehead and 
glanced first at San Giacinto and then at Prince Saracin- 
esca, after which he carefully resettled tlie glasses upon 
his long nose and proceeded with his task until he had 
reached the end of another set of clauses, when he re- 
peated the former operation with mechanical regularity, 
never failing to give San Giacinto the precedence of the 
first look. 

For a long time this Avent on, Avith a monotony which 
almost drove Giovanni from the room. Indeed nothing 
but absolute necessity could have kept him in his place. 
At last the final deed was reached. It was an act of res- 
titution drawn up in a simple form so as to include, by 
a few Avords, all the preceding documents. It set forth 
tliat Leone Saracinesca being ‘Hree in body and mind,” 
the son of Giovanni Saracinesca deceased, “ whom may 
the Lord preserve in a state of glory,” restored, gave 
back, yielded, and abandoned all those goods, titles, and 
benefices which he had inherited directly from Leone 
Saracinesca, the eleventh of that name, deceased, whom 
may the Lord preserA’-e in a state of glory,” to Giovanni 


sant’ ilario. 


425 


Saracinesca, Marcliese di San Giacinto, wlio was “ free in 
body and niind,’^ son. of Orsino Saracinesca, nintli of that 
name, deceased, “Avhoin may the Lord, etc.” Not one 
of the quaint stock phrases was omitted. The notary 
paused, looked round, adjusted his spectacles and con- 
tinued. The deed further set forth that Giovanni 
Saracinesca, Marcliese di San Giacinto aforesaid, ac- 
knowledged the receipt of the aforesaid goods, titles, and 
benehces, and stated that he received all as the complete 
inheritance, relinquishing all further claims against the 
aforesaid Leone and his heirs for ever. Once more the 
reader paused, and then read the last words in a clear 
voice — 

“ Both the noble parties promising, finally, in regard 
to the present cession, to take account of it, to hold it as 
acceptable, valid, and i^erpetual, and, for the same, 
never to allow it to be spoken of otherwise.” 

A few words followed, setting forth the name of the 
notary and tlie statement that the act was executed in his 
presence, with the date. When he had finished reading 
all, he rose and turned the document upon the table so 
that the two parties could stand opposite to him and 
sign it. Without a word he made a slight inclination 
and offered the pen to Saracinesca. The old gentleman 
pushed back his chair and marched forward with erect 
head and a firm step to sign away what had been his 
birthright. From first to last he had acknowledged the 
justice of his cousin’s claims, and he was not the man to 
waver at the supreme moment. - Tiis hair bristled more 
stiffly than ever, and his dark eyes shot fire, but he took 
the pen and wrote his great strong signature as clearly 
as he had written it at the foot of his marriage contract 
five and thirty years earlier. Giovanni looked at him 
with admiration. 

Then San Giacinto, who had risen out of respect to 
the old man, came forward and took the pen in his turn. 
He wrote out his name in straight, firm characters as 
usual, but at the end the ink made a broad black mark 
that ended abruptly, as though the writer had put the 
last stroke to a great undertaking. 

“There should be two witnesses,” said the notary in 
the awkward silence that followed. “ Don Giovanni can 


426 


sant’ ilakio. 


be one,” he added, giving the latter the only name that 
was now his, with a lawyer’s scrupulous exactness. 

One of your clerks can be the other, ” suggested Sara- 
cinesca, who was anxious to get away as soon as possible. 

^‘It is not usual,” replied the notary. ‘‘Is there no 
one in the palace? One of the young princes would do 
admirably.” 

“ They are all away,” said San Giacinto. “ Let me see 
— there is the librarian. Will he answer the purpose? 
He must be in the library at this hour. A respectable 
man — he has been thirty years in the house. For that 
matter, the steward is probably in his office, too.” 

“The librarian is the best person,” answered the 
notary. 

“I will bring him at once — I know the way.” San 
Giacinto left the study by the door that opened upon the 
passage. The others could hear his heavy steps as he 
went rapidly up the paved corridor. Old Saracinesca 
walked up and down the room unable to conceal his im- 
patience. Giovanni resumed his seat and waited quietly, 
indifferent to the last. 

Arnoldo Meschini was in the library, as San Giacinto 
had anticipated. He was seated at his usual place at the 
upper end of the hall, surrounded by books and writing 
materials which he handled nervously without making 
any serious attempt to use them. He had lost all power 
of concentrating his thoughts or of making any effort to 
work. Fortunately for him no one had paid any atten- 
tion to him during the past ten days. His appearance 
was dishevelled and slovenly, and he was more bent than 
he had formerly been. His eyes were bleared and glassy 
as he stared at the table before him, assuming a wild and 
startled expression when, looking up, he fancied he saw 
some horrible object gliding quickly across the sunny 
floor, or creeping up to him over the polished table. 
All his former air of humility and shabby respectability 
was gone. His disordered dress, his straggling grayish 
hair tliat hung from beneath the dirty black skullcap 
around his mis-shapen ears, his face, yellow in parts and 
irregularly flushed in others, as though it were begin- 
ning to be scorched from within, his unwashed hands, 
^very detail of his appearance, in short, proclaimed his 


sant’ ilario. 


427 


total degradation. But hitherto no one had noticed him, 
for he had lived between his attic, the deserted library 
and the apothecary’s shop on the island of Saint Barthol- 
omew. His mind had almost ceased to act when he was 
awake, except in response to the fear which the smallest 
circumstances now caused him. If he had dreams by 
night, he saw visions also in the day, and his visions 
generally took the shape of San Giacinto. He had not 
really seen him since he had met him when the prince 
lay in state, but the fear of him was, if anything, greater 
than if he had met him daily. The idea that the giant 
was lying in wait for him had become fixed, and yet he 
was powerless to fly. His energy was all gone between 
his potations and the constant terror that paralysed him. 

On that morning he had been as usual to the Ponte 
Quattro Capi and had returned with the means of sleep 
in his pocket. He had no instinct left but to deaden his 
sensations with drink during the hours of light, while 
waiting for the time when he could lie down and yield to 
the more potent influence of the opium. He had there- 
fore come back as usual, and by force of habit had taken 
his place in the library, the fear of seeming to neglect 
his supposed duties forbidding him to spend all his time 
in his room. As usual, too, he had locked the door of 
the passage to separate himself from his dread of a 
supernatural visitation. He sat doubled together in his 
chair, his long arms lying out before him upon the books 
and papers. 

All at once he started in his seat. One, two, one two 
— yes, there were footsteps in the corridor — they were 
coming nearer and nearer — heavy, like those of the dead 
prince — but quicker, like those of San Giacinto — closer, 
closer yet. A hand turned the latch once, twice, then 
shook the lock roughly. Meschini was helpless. He 
could neither get upon his feet and escape by the other 
exit, nor find the way to the pocket that held his weapon. 
Again the latch was turned and shaken, and then the 
deep voice he dreaded was heard calling to him. 

Signor Meschini ! ” 

He shrieked aloud with fear, but he was paralysed in 
every limb. A moment later a terrible crash drowned 
his cries. San Giacinto, on hearing his agonised scream. 


428 


SANT’ ILAKIO. 


had feared some accident. He drew back a step and 
then, with a spring, tlirew his colossal strength against 
the line where the leaves of the door joined. The lock 
broke in its sockets, the panels cracked under the tre 
mendous pressure, and the door fleAV wide open. In a 
moment San Giacinto was standing over the librarian, 
trying to drag him back from the table and out of his 
seat. He thought the man was in a fit. In reality he 
was insane with terror. 

“ An easy death, for the love of heaven ! moaned the 
wretch, twisting himself under the iron hands that held 
him by the shoulders. “ For God’s sake ! I will tell you 
all — do not torture me — oh ! oh ! — only let it be easy — 
and ({uick — yes, I tell you — I killed the prince — oh, 
mercy, mercy, for Christ’s sake! ” 

San Giacinto ’s grip tightened, and his face grew Uvid. 
He lifted Meschini bodily from the chair and set him 
against the table, holding him up at arm’s length, his 
deep eyes blazing Avith a rage that would soon be uncon- 
trollable. Mescliini’s naturally strong constitution did 
not afford him the relief of fainting. 

“ You killed him — Avhy? ” asked San Giacinto through 
his teeth, scarcely able to speak. 

‘‘ For you, for you — oh, have mercy — do not ” 

‘‘Silence!” cried the giant in a voice that shook the 
vault of the hall. “ AnsAver me or I Avill tear your head 
from your body Avith my hands ! Why do you say you 
killed him for me?” 

Meschini trembled all over, and then his contorted 
face greAV almost calm. He had reached that stage which 
may be called the somnambulism of fear. The perspira- 
tion covered his skin in an instant, and his voice sank to 
a distinct whisper. 

“ He made me forge the deeds, and would not pay me 
for them. Then I killed him.” 

“What deeds?” 

“The deeds that have made you Prince Saracinesca. 
If you do not believe me, go to my room, the originals 
are in the cupboard. The key is here, in my right-hand 
pocket. ” 

He could not move to get it, for San Giacinto held him 
fast, and Avatched every attempt he made at a movement. 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


429 


His own face was deathly pale, and his white lips were 
compressed together. 

“Yon forged them altogether, and the originals are 
untouched? ” he asked, his grasp tightening unconsciously 
till Meschini yelled with pain. 

“Yes!” he cried. “Oh, do not hurt me — an easy 
death ” 

“Come with me,” said San Giacinto, leaving his arms 
and taking him by the collar. Then he dragged and 
pushed him towards the splintered door of the passage. 
At the threshold, Meschini writhed and tried to draw 
back, but he could no more have escaped from those 
hands that held him than a lamb can loosen the talons of 
an eagle when they are buried deep in the flesh. 

“ Go on 1 ” urged the strong man, in fierce tones. “ You 
came by this passage to kill him — you know the way.” 

With a sudden movement of his right hand he launched 
the howling wretch forward into the corridor. All 
through the narrow way Meschini’s cries for mercy 
resounded, loud and piercing, but no one heard him. 
The walls were thick and the distance from the inhabited 
rooms was great. But at last the shrieks reached the 
study. 

Saracinesca stood still in his walk. Giovanni sprang 
to his feet. The notaries sat in their places and trem- 
bled. The noise came nearer and then the door flew 
open. San Giacinto dragged the shapeless mass of 
humanity in and flung it half way across the room, so 
that it sank in a heap at the old prince’s feet. 

“There is the witness to the deeds,” he cried savagely. 
“He forged them, and he shall witness them in hell. 
He killed his master in this very room, and here he shall 
tell the truth before he dies. Confess, you dog! And 
be quick about it, or I will help you.” 

He stirred the grovelling creature with his foot. Mes- 
chini only rolled from side to side and hid his face against 
the floor. Then the gigantic hands seized him again and 
set him on his feet, and held him with his face to the 
eight men who had all risen and were standing together 
in wondering silence. 

“Speak!” shouted San Giacinto in Meschini’s ear. 
“ You are not dead yet — you have much to live through, 

[ hope.” 


430 


sant’ ilario. 


Again that trembling passed over the unfortunate 
man’s limbs, and he grew quiet and submissive. It was 
all as he had seen it in his wild dreams and visions, the 
secret chamber whence no sound could reach the outer 
world, the stern judges all in black, the cruel strength 
of San Giacinto ready to torture him. The shadow of 
death rose in his eyes. 

“Let me sit down,” he said in a broken voice. 

San Giacinto led him to a chair in the midst of them 
all. Then he stood before one of the doors, and motioned 
to his cousin to guard the other. But Arnoldo Meschini 
had no hope of escape. His hour was at hand, and he 
knew it. 

“You forged the deeds which were presented as orig- 
inals in the court. Confess it to those gentlemen.” It 
was San Giacinto who spoke. 

“ The prince made me do it,” answered Meschini in low 
tones. “ He promised me twenty thousand scudi for the 
Avork.” 

“ To be paid — when? Tell all.” 

“To be paid in cash the day the verdict was given.” 

. “You came to get your money here?” 

“I came here. He denied having promised anything 
definite. I grew angry. I killed him.” A violent 
shudder shook his frame from head to foot. 

“ You strangled him with a pocket handkerchief? ” 

“It was Donna Faustina’s?” 

“ The prince threw it on the ground after he had struck 
her. I saAV the quarrel. I was waiting for my money. 
I watched them through the door.” 

“ You know that you are to die. Where are the deeds 
you stole when you forged the others?” 

“ I told you — in the cupboard in my room. Here is 
the key. Only — for God’s sake ” 

He was beginning to break down again. Perhaps, by 
the habit of the past days he felt the need for drink even 
in that supreme moment, for his hand sought his pocket 
as he sat. Instead of the bottle he felt the cold steel 
barrel of the revolver, which he had forgotten. San 
Giacinto looked towards the notary. 

“ Is this a full confession, sufficient to commit this 
m^,n to trial?” he asked. But before the notary could 


sant’ ilario. 


431 


answer, Meschini’s voice sounded through the room, not 
weak and ])roken, but loud and clear. 

“It is! It is!” he cried in sudden and wild excite- 
ment. “I have told all. The deeds will speak for 
themselves. Ah! you would have done better to leave 
me amongst my books!” He turned to San Giacinto. 
“You will never be Prince Saracinesca. Put I shall 
escape you. You shall not give me a slow death — you 
shall not, I say ” 

San Giacinto made a step towards him. The proxim- 
ity of the man who had inspired him with such abject 
terror put an end to his hesitation. 

“You shall not!” he almost screamed. “But my 
blood is on your head — Ah ! ” 

Three deafening reports shook the air in rapid succes- 
sion, and all that was left of Arnoldo Meschini lay in a 
shapeless heap upon the floor. While a man might have 
counted a score there was silence in the room. Then 
San Giacinto came forward and bent over the body, while 
the notaries and their .clerks cowered in a corner. Sara- 
cinesca and Giovanni stood together, grave and silent, 
as brave men are when they have seen a horrible sight 
and can do nothing. Meschini was quite dead. When 
San Giacinto had assured himself of the fact, he looked 
up. All the flerce rage had vanished from his face. 

“ He is dead,” he said quietly. “ You all saw it. You 
will have to give your evidence in half an hour when 
the police come. Be good enough to open the door.” 

He took up the body in his arms carefully, but with 
an ease that amazed those who watched him. Giovanni 
held the door open, and San Giacinto deposited his bur- 
den gently upon the pavement of the corridor. Then he 
turned back and re-entered the room. The door of the 
study closed for ever on Arnoldo Meschini. 

In the dead silence that followed, San Giacinto ap- 
proached the table upon which the deed lay, still waiting 
to be witnessed. He took it in his hand and turned to 
Saracinesca. There was no need for him to exculpate 
himself from any charge of complicity in the abominable 
fraud which Montevarchi had prepared before he died. 
Not one of the men present even thought of suspecting 
him. Even if they had, it was clear that he would not 


482 


sant’ ilario. 


have brought Meschini to confess before them a robbery 
in which he had taken part. But there was that in l)is 
brave eyes that told his innocence better than any evi- 
dence or argument could have proclaimed it. He held 
out the document to Saracinesca. 

“Would you like to keep it as a memento? ” he asked. 
“Or shall I destroy it before you?’^ 

His voice never quavered, his face was not discom- 
posed. Giovanni, the noble-hearted gentleman, wondered 
whether he himself could have borne such a blow so 
bravely as this innkeeper cousin of his. Hopes, such as 
few men can even aspire to entertain, had been suddenly 
extinguished. A future of power and wealth and honour, 
the highest almost that his country could give any man, 
had been in a moment dashed to pieces before his eyes. 
Dreams, in which the most indifferent would see the 
prospect of enormous satisfaction, had vanished into 
nothing during the last ten minutes, almost at the instant 
when they were to be realised. And yet the man who 
had hoped such hopes, who had loqked forward to such 
a future, whose mind must have revelled many a time 
in the visions that were already becoming realities — 
that man stood before them all, outwardly unmoved, and 
proposing to his cousin that he should keep as a remem- 
brance the words that told of his own terrible disap- 
pointment. He was indeed the calmest of those present. 

“ Shall I tear it to pieces? ’’ he asked again, holding the 
document between his fingers. Then the old prince spoke. 

“Do what you will with it,” he answered. “But give 
me your hand. You are a braver man than I.” 

The two men looked into each other’s eyes as their 
hands met. 

“ It shall not be the last deed between us, ” said Sara- 
cinesca. “There shall be another. Whatever may be 
the truth about that villain’s work you shall have your 
share ” 

“ A few hours ago, you would not take yours,” answered 
San Giacinto quietly. “ Must I repeat your own words? ” 

“Well, well — we will talk of that. This has been a 
terrible morning’s work, and we must do other things 
before we go to business again. That poor man’s body 
is outside the door. We had better attend to that mat- 


SANT’ ILARIO. 


438 


ter first, and send for the police. Giovanni, my boy, 
will yon tell Corona? I believe she is still in the 
house.” 

Giovanni needed no urging to go upon his errand. 
He entered the drawing-room where Corona was still sit- 
ting beside Faustina upon the sofa. His face must have 
been pale, for Corona looked at him with a startled 
expression. 

“ Is anything the matter? ” she asked. 

‘‘Something very unpleasant has occurred,”’ he an- 
swered, looking at Faustina. “ Meschini, the librarian, 
has just died very suddenly in the study where we were.” 

“ Meschini? ” cried Faustina in surprise and with some 
anxiety. 

“ Yes. Are you nervous, Donna Faustina? May I tell 
you something very startling? ” It was a man’s question. 

“Yes — what is it?” slie asked quickly. 

“ Meschini confessed before us all that it was he who 
was tlie cause — in fact that he had murdered jmur 
fatlier. Before any one could stop him, he had shot 
liimself. It is very dreadful.” 

With a low cry tliat was more expressive of amaze- 
ment than of liorror, Faustina sank into a chair. In his 
anxiety to tell his wife the whole truth Giovanni forgot 
lior at once. As soon as he began to speak, however. 
Corona led him away to the window where they had 
stood together a few hours earlier. 

“Corona — what I told her is not all. There is some- 
thing else. Meschini had forged the i)apers which gave 
the property to San Giacinto. Monte varchi had prom- 
ised him twenty thousand scudi for the job. It was 
because he would not pay the money that Meschini killed 
him. Do you understand?” 

“You will have everything after all?” 

“ Everything — but we must give San Giacinto a share. 
He has behaved like a hero. He found it all out and 
made Meschini confess. When lie knew the truth he did 
not move a muscle of his face, but offered my father the 
deed he had just signed as a memento of the occasion.” 

“Then he will not take anything, anymore than yon 
would, or your father. Is it quite sure, Giovanni? Is 
tliere no possible mistake?” 

2 D 


434 


sant’ ilario. 


“No. It is absolutely certain. The original docu- 
ments arc in this house.” 

“I am glad then, for you, dear,” answered Corona. 
“ It would have been very hard for you to bear ” 

“After this morning? After the other day in Holy 
Office?” asked Giovanni, looking deep into her splendid 
eyes. “ Can anything be hard to bear if you love me, 
darling?” 

“ Oh my beloved ! I wanted to hear you say it ! ” 
Her head sank upon his shoulder, as though she had 
found that perfect rest for which she had once so longed. 

Here ends the second act in the history of the Sara- 
cinesca. To trace their story further would be to enter 
upon an entirely different series of events, less unusual 
perhaps in themselves, but possibly worthy of descrip- 
tion as embracing that period during which Home and the 
Komans began to be transformed and modernised. In 
the occurrences that followed, both political and social, 
the Saracinesca bore a part, in that blaze of gaiety which 
for many reasons developed during the winter of the 
(Ecumenical Council, in the fall of the temporal power, 
in the social confusion that succeeded that long-expected 
catastrophe, and which led by rapid degrees to the pres- 
ent state of things. If there are any left who still feel 
an interest in Giovanni and Corona, the historian may 
once more resume his task and set forth in succession the 
circumstances through which they have passed since that 
memorable morning they spent at the Palazzo Monte- 
varchi. They themselves are facts, and, as such, are a 
part of the century in which we live; whether they are 
interesting facts or not, is for others to judge, an^ if the 
verdict denounces them as flat, unprofitable and alto- 
gether dull, it is not their fault; the blame must be 
imputed to him who, knowing them well, has failed in 
an honest attempt to show them as they are. 


THE END. 


Typography by J. S. Cushing & Co., Boston, U.S.A. 


Presswork by Berwick & Smith, Boston, U.S.A. 


KATHARINE LAUDERDALE 


TWO VOLUMES. CLOTH. $2.00. 

The first of a series of novels dealing with New York life. 


PRESS COMMENTS. 

“ Mr. Crawford at his best is a great novelist, and in Katharine Lau- 
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“ A most admirable novel, excellent in style, flashing with humor, and 
full of the ripest and Avisest reflections upon men and women.” — The 
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“ It is the first time, we think, in American fiction that any such 
breadth of view has shown itself in the study of our social framework.” 
— Life. 

“ Admirable in its simple pathos, its enforced humor, and, above all, 
in its truths to human nature. . . . There is not a tedious page or para- 
graph in it.” — Punch. 

“ It need scarcely he said that the story is .skilfully aud picturesquely 
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ings.” — New York Commercial Advertiser. 

“ Katharine Lauderdale is a tale of New York, and is up to the highest 
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“ The book shows the inventive power, the ingenuity of plot, the subtle 
analysis of character, the skilfulness in presenting shifting scenes, the 
patient working-out of details, the aptitude of deduction, and vividness of 
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Home Journal. 

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A Sequel to “ KATHARINE LAUDERDALE,” 

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THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 

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LIST OF WORKS 

BY 

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A NEW NOVEL. 

PIETRO GHISLERI. 

12mo, cloth, $1.00. In the uniform edition of Mr, Crawford’s 

Novels. 


THE NOVEL. WHAT IT IS. 

By F. Marion Crawford, author of “Children of the King,’* 
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*** Also a large-paper limited edition. 12mo, $2.00. 

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CHILDREN OF THE KING. 

■ ■ ' A Tale of Southern Italy. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 

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.at the last renders the incident of the story powerful beyond description. One 
can only feel such sensations as the last scene of the story incites. It ma.v be 
.added that if Mr. Crawford has written some stories unevenly, he has made no 
mistakes in the stories of Italian life. A reader of them cannot fail to gain a 
clearer, fuller acquaintance with the Italians and the artistic spirit that per- 
vades the country.” — M. L. B. in Syracuse Journal. 


]\TACMn.BAN & Co. take pleasure in announcing that they have 
added the following volumes (with the author’s latest revisions) to 
their uniform edition of the Works of Mr. F. Marion Crawford, 
thereby enabling them to issue a complete edition of all his novels : 

A ROMAN SINGER. New Edition, revised and corrected. 

TO LEEWARD. PAUL PATOFF. 

AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN. New Edition, revised 
and partly rewritten. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 


THE SARACINESCA SERIES. 


DON ORSINO. 

A Continuation of “Saracinesca” and “Sant' Ilario.” 

"‘The third in a rather remarkable series of novels dealing with 
three generations of the Saracinesca family, entitled respectively 
‘ Saracinesca,’ ‘ Sant’ Ilario ’ and ‘ Don Orsino,’ and these novels present 
an important study of Italian life, customs, and conditions during the 
present century. Each one of these novels is worthy of very careful 
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accuracy, and in charm of style. The ‘ new Italy ’ is strikingly 
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“We are inclined to regard the book as the most ingenious of all 
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SANT’ ILARIO. A Sequel to “Saracinesca.” 

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' Sant’ Ilario ’ is a continuation of the chronicles of the Saracinesca 
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rank with ‘ Greifenstein ’ as the best work the author has produced. 
It fulfils every requirement of artistic fiction. It brings out what is 
most impressive in human action, without owing any of its effective- 
ness to sensationalism or artifice. It is natural, fluent in evolution, 
accordant with experience, graphic in description, t^enetrating in 
analysis, and absorbing in interest.” — York THhune. 

SARACINESCA. 

“His highest achievement, as yet, in the realms of fiction. The 
work has two distinct merits, either of which would serve to make 
it great, — that of telling a perfect story in a perfect way, and of giv- 
ing a graphic picture of Roman society in the last days of the Poj)e’s 
temporal power. . . . The story is exquisitely told.” — Boston 
Traveller. 

“One of the most engrossing novels we have ever read.” — Boston 
Times. 

The three volumes in a box, $3.00. 

Half morocco, $8.00. Half calf, $7.50. 

2 


THE THREE FATES. 


“ The strength of the story lies in its portrayal of the aspirations, 
disciplinary efforts, trials and triumphs of the man who is a horn 
writer, and who, by long and painful experiences, learns the good 
that is in him and the way in which to give it effectual expression. 
The analytical quality of the book is excellent, and the individuality 
of each one of the very dissimilar tliree fates is set forth in an entirely 
satisfactory manner. . . . Mr. Crawford has manifestly brought his 
host qualities as a student of human nature and his finest resources 
as a master of an original and picturesque style to bear upon this 
story. Taken for all in all it is one of the most pleasing of all his 
productions in fiction, and it affords a view of certain phases of Amer- 
ican, or perhaps we should say of New York, life that have not 
hitherto been treated with anything like the same adequacy and 
felicity.” — Boston Beacon. 


THE WITCH OF PRAGUE. 

A Fantastic Tale. 

Illustrated by W. J. IIennessy. 

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tions of hypnotic science. . . . But ‘ The Witch of Prague ’ is not 
merely a striking exposition of the far-reaching possibilities of a new 
science ; it is a romance of singular daring and power. ” — London 
Academy. 

“ Mr. Crawford has written in many keys, but never in so strange 
a one as that which dominates ‘The Witch of Prague.’ . . . The 
artistic skill with which this extraordinary story is constructed and 
carried out is admirable and delightful. . . . Mr. Crawford has 
scored a decided triumph, for the interest of the tale is sustained 
throughout. ... A very remarkable, powerful, and interesting 
story.” — New York Tiibune. 

“But Mr. Crawford has not lost his oft-proved skill in holding 
his readers’ attention, and there are single scenes and passages in tliis 
book that rival in intensity anything he has ever written.” — Christian 
Union. 


A CIGARETTE-MAKER’S ROMANCE. 


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power.” — Boston Commercial Bulletin. 

“ It is full of life and movement, and is one of the best of Mr. 
Crawford’s books.” — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

“The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has Mr. Craw- 
ford done more brilliant realistic work than here. But his realism 
is only the case and cover for those intense feelings which, placed 
under no matter what humble conditions, produce the most dramatic 
and the most tragic situations. . . . This is a secret of genius, tij 
take the most coarse and common material, the meanest surround- 
ings, the most sordid material prospects, and out of the vehement 
j)assions which sometimes dominate all human beings to build up 
with these poor elements scenes and passages, the dramatic and emo- 
tional power of which at once enforce attention and awaken the pro- 
foundest interest.” — New York Tribune. 

“ In the ‘Cigarette-maker’s Romance ’ Mr. Crawford may be said 
to have given new evidence of the novel-maker’s art. ... It is to be 
hop(id that every one who reads Mr. Crawford’s tale will heed of the 
rare finish of his literary work, a model in its kind,” — The Critic. 


GREIFENSTEIN. 

“ ‘ Greifenstein ’ is a remarkable novel, and while it illustrates 
once more the author’s unusual versatility, it also shows that he has 
not been tempted into careless writing by the vogue of his earlier 
books. . . . There is nothing weak or small or frivolous in the story. 
'I’he author deals with tremendous passions working at the height of 
their energy. His characters are stern, rugged, determined men and 
women, governed by powerful prejudices and iron conventions, types 
of a military people, in whom the sense of duty has been cultivated 
until it dominates all other motives, and in whom the principle of 
‘ noblesse oblige ’ is, so far as the aristocratic class is concerned, the 
fundamental rule of conduct. What such people may be capable of 
is startlingly shown.” — New York Tribune. 

“ . . . Another notable contribution to the literature of the day. It 
possesses originality in its conception and is a work of unusual abil- 
ity. Its interest is sustained to the close, and it is an advance even 
on the previous work of this talented author. Like all Mr. Craw- 
ford’s work this novel is crisp, clear, and vigorous, and will be read 
with a great deal of interest.” — New York Evening Telegram. 


MR. ISAACS. 

A Tale of Modern India. 

“ The writer first sliows the hero in relation with the people of 
the East and then skilfully brings info connection the Anglo-Saxon 
race. It is in this showing of the ditferent effects which the two 
classes of minds have upon the central figure of the story that one of 
its chief merits lies. The characters are original and one does not 
recognize any of the hackneyed iiersonages who are so apt to he con- 
sidered indispensable to novelists, and which, dressed in one guise or 
another, are but the marionettes, which are all dominated by the 
same mind, moved by the same motive force. The men are all 
eiulowed with individualism and independent life and thought. . , . 
There is a strong tinge of mysticism about the book w^hich is one of 
its greatest charms.” — Boston Transcript. 

“No story of human experience that we have met with since 
‘ Jolin Inglesant ’ has such an effect of transporting the reader into 
regions differing from his own. ‘ Mr. Isaacs’ is the best novel that 
has ever laid its scenes in our Indian dominions.” — The Daily News, 
London. 

“ This is a line and noble story. It has freshness like a new and 
striking scene on which one has never looked before. It has character 
and individuality. It has meaning. It is lofty and uplifting. It is 
strongly, sweetly, tenderly written. It is in all respects an uncommon 
novel. ... In line, ‘ Mr. Isaacs ’ is an acquaintance to be made.” 

— The Literary Woi'ld. 

DR. CLAUDIUS. 

A True Story. 

“ There is a suggestion of strength, of a mastery of facts, of a 
fund of knowledge, that speaks well for future production. ... To 
be thoroughly enjoyed, however, this book must be read, as no mere 
cursory notice can give an adequate idea of its many interesting 
points and excellences, for without a doubt ‘ Dr. Claudius ’ is the 
most interesting book that has been published for many months, and 
richly deserves a high place in the public favor, "—tit. Louis tipectator. 

“ ‘Dr. Claudius’ is surprisingly good, coming after a story of so 
much merit as ‘Mr. Isaacs.’ The hero is a magnificent specimen of 
humanity, and sympathetic readers will be fascinated by his chival- 
rous wooing of the beautiful American countess.” — Boston 'Traveller. 

‘ ‘ To oTir mind it by no means belies the promises of its predecessor. 
The story, fin exceedingly improbable and romantic one, is told with 
jiiuch skill; the characters are strongly marked without any suspi- 
cion of caricature, and the author’s ideas on social and political sub- 
jects are often brilliant and always striking. It is no exaggeration to 
say that there is not a dull page in the book, which is peculiarly adapted 
fur the recreation of student or thinker.” — Liviny Church. 

5 


WITH THE IIVI MORTALS. 

“Altogether aii admirable piece of art worked in the spirit of a 
thorough artist. Every reader of cultivated tastes will find it a book 
prolific in entertainment of the most refined description, and to all 
such we commend it heartily.”— Saturday Edmiiiig Gazette. 

‘ ‘ The strange central idea of the story could have occurred only 
to a writer whose mind was very sensitive to the current of modern 
thought and progress, while its execution, the setting it forth in 
proper literary clothing, could be successfully attempted only by one 
whose active literary al)ility should be fully ecpialled by his power of 
assimilative knowledge both literary and scientific, and no less by 
his courage and capacity for hard work. The book will be found to 
have a fascination entirely new for the habitual reader of novels. 
Indeed Mr. Crawford has succeeded in taking his readers quite above 
the ordinary plane of novel interest.” — Boston Advertiser. 

MARZIO’S CRUCIFIX. 

“We take the liberty of saying that this work belongs to the 
highest department of character-painting in words.” — Ghurckuiaii. 

“‘Marzio’s Crucifix’ is another of those tales of modern Romo 
which show the author so much at his ease. A subtle conqmund (»i 
artistic folding, avarice, malice, and criminal frenzy is this carver of 
silver chalices and crucifixes.” — The Times. 

“We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr. Crawford pos- 
sesses in an extraordinary degree the art of constructing a story. His 
sense of ])roportion is just, and his narrative flows along with ease 
and perspicuity. It is as if it could not have been written otherwise, 
so naturally does the story unfold itself, and so logical and consistent 
is the sequence of incident after incident. As a story ‘ Marzio’s Cru- 
cifix ’ is perfectly constructed.” — New York Commercial Advertiser. 

KHALED. 

A Story of Arabia. 

“Throughout the fascinating story runs the subtlest analysis, 
suggested rather than elaborately worked out, of human passion and 
motive, the building out and development of the character of the 
woman who becomes the hero’s wife and whose love he finally wins 
being an especially acute and highly-finished example of the story- 
feller’s art. . . . That it is beautifully written and holds the interest 
of the reader, fanciful as it all is, to the very end, none who know 
the depth and artistic finish of Mr. Crawford’s work need be told. 

— The Chicago Times. 

“It abounds in stirring incidents and barbaric picturesqueness ; 
and the love struggle of the unloved Khaled is manly in its simplicity 
and noble in its ending. Mr. Crawford has done nothing better than, 
if he has done anything as good as, ‘ Khaled.’ ” — 2'he Mail and Ex- 
press. 

tt 


ZOROASTER. 


“ The novel opens with a magnificent description of the march of 
the Babylonian court to Belshazzar’s feast, with the sudden and awful 
ending of the latter by the marvellous writing on the wall which 
Daniel is called to interpret. From that point the story moves on in a 
series of grand and dramatic scenes and incidents which will not fail 
to hold the reader fascinated and spell-bound to the end. ” — Christian 
at Work. 

“The field of Mr. Crawford’s imagination appears to be un- 
bounded. ... In ‘ Zoroaster ’ Mr. Crawford’s winged fancy ventures 
a daring flight. . . . Yet ‘ Zoroaster ’ is a novel rather than a drama. 
It is a drama in the force of its situations and in the poetry and 
dignity of its language ; but its men and women are not men and 
women of a play. By the naturalness of their conversation and be- 
havior they seem to live and lay hold of our human sympathy more 
than the same characters on a stage could possibly do.” — The 
Times. 

“As a matter of literary art solely, we doubt if Mr. Crawford has 
ever before given us better work than the description of Belshazzar’s 
feast with which the story begins, or the death-scene with which it 
closes.” — The Christian Union. 


A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 

“It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of its kind as this 
brief and vivid story. ... It is doubly a success, being full of human 
sympathy, as well as thoroughly artistic in its nice balancing of the 
unusual wdth the commonplace, the clever juxtaposition of innocence 
and guilt, comedy and tragedy, simplicity and intrigue.” — Critic. 

“Of all the stories Mr. Crawford has w^ritten, it is the most dra- 
matic, the most finished, the most compact. . . . The taste which is 
left in one’s mind after the story is finished is exactly w'hat the fine 
reader desires and the novelist intends. ... It has no defects. It is 
neither trifling nor trivial. It is a work of art. It is perfect.” 

—Boston Beacon. 

“ The plot is unfolded and the character-drawing given with the 
w^ell-known artistic skill of Mr. Crawd’ord, and to those w^ho have not 
before read it this story will furnish a rare literary treat. ” 

— Home J^trnal. 

7 


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